Perfection
by RaspberrieSundae
Summary: I'm sorry I fell for perfection, when I'm so far from it myself.
1. Prologue: I'm sorry

AN: I was sick of seeing Dwayne portrayed as an idiot. So, I decided to do something about it. In this story from his point of view, Dwayne will have intelligence and feelings...and he'll be gay and in love. If this bothers you, well, don't read it. Otherwise, enjoy! I don't own Dwayne or anything else you recognize.

  


**

  
  


I am not an idiot.

  


Everyone else thinks I am...maybe everyone else _knows_ I am, and I'm just gullible about everything, from thinking Varsity athletes will accept and be nice to their new freshmen players to believing my mom when she presses her lips to my forehead and tells me I'm smart after asking how school's going.

I am not an idiot.

  


Forget my PSAT scores and my official GPA and the aforementioned fact that I'm gullible. Forget the fact that some things just fly right over my head.

  


I'm sorry that I don't understand everything. I'm sorry that I ask questions when I'm confused and fall for silly pranks and have to turn to Russ for explanations. 

  


I'm sorry that my voice has a deep Southern twang that no amount of time away from Texas can soften it. 

  


I'm sorry I'm a puck hog.

  


I'm sorry that the only thing I'm good at is puck handling.

  


I'm sorry that I'm not perfect, that I'm not the hockey star and the straight-A student. I'm sorry that I don't win Most Valuable Player at every awards banquet and sorry I don't have rich parents...sorry I don't have nice clothes and a nice house and a nice car. I'm sorry that I don't have everyone falling all over my feet. I'm sorry...I'm sorry I'm not Adam Banks.

  


And, oh, Adam...I'm sorry I don't have sandy blonde hair that sweeps across my forehead, when I'm too careless to brush it away. I'm sorry I don't have soft, soft blue eyes that crinkle in the corners when I laugh. I'm sorry my voice isn't deep and perfectly pitched...and I guess I'm sorry I'm not straight.

  


And I'm very, very sorry that Adam doesn't feel the same way about me as....as I do about him. I'm sorry I fell for perfection, when I'm so far from it myself.

  


Maybe I _am_ an idiot.

  


**


	2. I've always wanted to visit

  


_"Dwayne...Dwayne, I know."_

  


_My head shoots up, and I swallow nervously. _

  


_"You know? You know what?"_

  


_"I know how you feel. I know that you're..."_

  


_"Please!" I cry out, closing my eyes briefly. "Don't finish that thought."_

  


_"But I know," Adam says firmly. "You're gay." I can't open my eyes. "You're gay, and you're in love with me."_

  


_I double over, my breath is suddenly gone. I gulp soundlessly, trying to suck air into my lungs, trying to breathe again, trying to live. I look up at Adam, who stares down at me, a malicious glint in his eyes._

  


_"I hate you, I hate you. I hatehatehatehatehatehatehatehate...."_

  


I wake up, sweating and breathing heavily. I press my hand to my forehead; it is hot to the touch. I bite my lip and push my sweaty hair away from my face. I swallow heavily

  


_It wasn't real. It was just a dream. ...justadreamjustadreamjustadream..._

  


Within minutes, my breathing slows, my chest stops heaving, and my eyes are filled with salty tears. I blink, allowing a few of them to fall, then brush them away roughly with my fingers.

  


I still and give my eyes a few moments to adjust to the dark. Adam is across the room, unaware, sleeping peacefully.

  


I slip carefully out of my own bed and pad softly to his.

  


I gaze down at Adam. His disheveled hair falls into his eyes, the twisted white sheets rest around his waist, and his head is thrown back, exposing his throat. I reach out a tentative hand and brush my fingers over his forehead, pushing his hair back.

  


"You wouldn't do that, would you, Adam?"

  


He rolls over in his sleep, and I freeze, worry that he'll awake, that he'll see me standing there, that he'll have felt my hands on his face, and that he'll start asking questions that I'm just not ready to answer.

  


Adam breathes heavily in his sleep, while I find my own breath caught. He sighs softly and settles further back into his pillows. When I'm convinced he is still asleep, I exhale as quietly as possible...and can't resist and become bold again, brushing the pads of my fingers over Adam's exposed collarbone. 

  


"I can't help it, I can't help the way I feel, things just happen...love just happens..."

  


I know I'm justifying my feelings more to myself than to him. Adam has no idea of these feelings, of the love that had "just happened."

  


Lately, I've been entertaining thoughts of telling him. 

  


Just to see what he would say.

  


Just so I could see the reaction play across his perfect features.

  


Just...just because sometimes I like to disillusion myself into thinking he might love me back, that he might spread his arms...and welcome me into his world, welcome me into perfection.

  


I've always wanted to visit.

Quietly, I slink back to my own bed and slide under my own blankets. I lie there, gazing at the ceiling. Red dots dance in front of my eyes as I strain to adjust to the tiny amount of light. Slowly, very slowly, I drift off to sleep...

  


**

  



	3. I remember these moments so vividly

  


_"Dwayne...Dwayne, I know."_

  


_My head shoots up, and I swallow nervously. _

  


_"You know? You know what?"_

  


_"I know how you feel. I know that you're..."_

  


_"Please!" I cry out, closing my eyes briefly. "Don't finish that thought."_

  


_"But I know," Adam says firmly. "You're gay." I can't open my eyes. "You're gay, and you're in love with me."_

  


_I double over, my breath is suddenly gone. I gulp soundlessly, trying to suck air into my lungs, trying to breathe again, trying to live. I look up at Adam, who stares down at me, a soft gleam in his eyes._

  


_"It's okay...it's okay..." He grabs my hand and entwines our fingers. His hand is smooth against my rough, callous palm. "It's okay, I feel...I feel the same way."_

  


_He pulls me close to him, close enough that our chests are touching and our lips are inches apart...and then he kisses me gently but forcefully._

  


_"I love you. I lovelovelovelovelovelovelovelovelove..."_

  


I wake with a start, snuggled deep under my blankets. I am not worried and afraid...I'm not sweating or breathing heavily, I'm not crying.

  


But these dreams are worse than the others. Because my happiness, the warmth pooling in my stomach...is gone the moment I open my eyes and am cold and alone and it's the middle of the night. And it's the most heartbreaking, gut-wrenching feeling in the world.

  


I roll over and pull my blankets over my head.

  


It's a long time before sleep comes to me _again_.

  


**

  


"Dwayne..." 

  


I mumble and swat lazily at the air. I'm in no mood to get up now, can't this person see that I'm sleeping?

  


"Dwayne..." 

  


The person starts gently shaking my shoulder.

  


I roll onto my back and slowly open my eyes. As they adjust to the light and the details of my room (and my visitor) come into focus, I let a smile cross my face.

  


"Adam!" I say quietly.

  


He smiles briefly, and I blink up at him, too dazed and awed to say or do anything. 

  


"What time is it?" I ask.

  


"It's only about six-thirty, but we have practice in half an hour. You slept right through your alarm."

  


"Oh. Oh!" I sit up. "Thanks, Adam." 

  


"No problem."

  


And then he does the strangest thing...he runs his hand through my hair and laughs a little. "It's sticking straight up, you know."

  


My face immediately feels twenty degree hotter.

  


"We'd better go," I mumble quietly, climbing out of bed. 

  


I change from pajama pants into jeans, comb my (apparently unruly) hair, and brush my teeth. Adam and I are out the door in ten minutes.

  


Yes, Adam and I are roommates. Because that's the way my life always works out. It's that law..._Anything that can go wrong, will_. Someone's law...it begins with an "M," I know that.

  


Adam would know. And so I ask him.

  


"Murphy's Law," he tells me as we enter the practice arena and head straight for the locker room. "Why?"

  


"Just wondering."

  


The others (sans Connie and Julie, of course) are gathered in the locker room already, in various states of undress. Not that I notice or anything.

  


"Hey, Banks. Hey, Cowboy." 

  


I nod my head as a greeting, not feeling like talking much this morning, and walk to my locker. My gear's neatly lined up, and I change quickly - I am lacing up my skates and sliding the blade guards into place by the time some people are just pulling on their jerseys. 

  


With the expertise of someone who has been skating since the age of five, I walk (rather than wobble) out of the locker room.

  


For some reason, I am not in the mood to interact with anyone. I offer small smiles to Connie and Julie when they greet me and head immediately out onto the ice. I skate a few slow, lazy laps, lost in my thoughts, which, as they invariably always do, turn to my roommate, my (surprisingly) closest friend on the team, my...what should I call him? "Crush"? No, that's much too mild. "Love-interest"? Perhaps. Or...maybe just Adam. My thoughts drift to Adam.

  


...I've kind of always known that I'm gay. 

  


I'd never been completely sure, had never known why I felt so...different than anyone else. There was something there...er, rather, something _not_ there, something _missing_...and I was so frustrated, was never able to quite put my finger on _what_...and all I desperately wanted was to fix whatever it was, so I could feel whole, so that I could feel the same as everyone else.

  


But I'd had my inklings. They began to slowly solidify when I was thirteen. 

  


After the Ducks beat Trinidad in our first Goodwill Game, when Connie-and-Guy had been having problems and Connie had pulled me back in the locker room as they all were leaving...when Connie had told me that she was just wondering, had wondered from the moment she'd seen me. When she silenced my "Wondered what?" by pushing me against the wall by the door and pressing her lips to mine...I hadn't felt a thing, and I'd wondered. And I'd had to let her down very, very gently and feel my heart break watching the disappointment and embarrassment and hurt flash across her pretty features. And I'd had to console myself in knowing that if I'd let it continue any further, it would be her heart that would break.

  


And after the Italy game, when we were leaving the locker room, when Guy was reenacting the "totally awesome shot" he'd made during the game...he'd raised his hands in victory, and his shirt had ridden up just a bit, exposing a small slice of stomach. I'd found my gaze lingering, and I'd wondered. And I'd had to tear my eyes away and explain that the reason that my face was so red was because I was hot and I'd been playing hockey for the past two hours, that I was tired and worn-out. And I refused to go out afterwards and retired alone to my room, just to make it look believable.

  


I remember these moments so vividly...they flash before my closed eyes as if I were running a movie projector in my brain. I remember Connie's look as if she were before me now. I remember the contours of Guy's body, the curves of his waist below his jersey.

  


I swallow thickly and start to speed up. I make it twice more around the rink before,

  


"ROBERTSON!" 

  


I slide to a stop. "Coach." 

  


"That's the third time I called your name, Robertson," Orion says sternly, before he lets his features drop into a concerned look. "Everything all right?"

  


"Just a bit preoccupied," I reply after a moment's hesitation, purposely remaining vague.

  


He catches my reluctance to answer, as I should have expected he would. He skates close to me, rests a hand on my shoulder. "You need anything, Dwayne?" It's a rare moment when Orion uses first names. It means he's notices something's wrong, and he wants his players to know he's willing to listen. We've all learned his quirks in the past two and a half years. This year, our junior, when the Ducks were moved to Varsity, we'd brought Orion along with us. Coach Wilson retired at the end of our sophomore year, and Orion was promoted. I think the school feared another courtroom-esque-scene if they protested.

  


"Robertson!" Orion's directly in front of me. I've spaced out again. "You're out this practice."

  


"Naw, naw, Coach, I can - "

  


"You're out." Orion says softly, but there is no mistaking the seriousness of what he is saying.

  


I lower my head and skate off the rink. I pass all the other Ducks, clustered near the exit closest to the locker rooms. They are all looking at me with concern. The last in line, Adam (of course,) grabs my elbow. "What's wrong?"

  


I shrug. I really, really don't know. "Just...in a mood."

  


"You can talk to me," he says. 

  


Orion blows his whistle, and the Ducks skate toward him to get their instructions for today's practice. Adam doesn't move.

  


"You can talk to me," he repeats.

  


"Except I can't," I say, before I can really stop myself, and he's looking at me, and he doesn't understand, and I'm not sure that _I_ really understand, but I know it all comes back to him anyway, it always does, and so I'm certainly not going to elaborate. "You've gotta get to practice, Adam."

  


He turns to the team, to Orion, who's waiting for him.

  


"Remember the Goodwill Games?" he says. Of course I do, of course. "You were there for me, Dwayne. When no one else really was." I lower my head even further. My chin rests against my chest, and I refuse to meet his eyes. He leans in closer, he's boring holes into the top of my head. I can't resist any longer and look up. His eyes burn into mine, bright blue lasers, and I can't look away, not now, not ever. "Let me be there for you."

  


I don't say anything, and he skates off to join the group.

  


I walk into the locker room and take off my gear. When I'm back in street clothes, jeans and a t-shirt, I line up everything in my locker, make sure everything's in its proper place. I thread my belt through the loops of my jeans as I walk through the door, my bag tossed over my shoulder.

  


I don't make it all the way down the hallway before my legs give way under me. I hit the floor; it doesn't hurt, I'm numb, I'm numb. 

  


Of course I remember the Goodwill Games. Of course I remember being there for Adam. Of course I remember the moment I fell in love.

  


**

  



	4. I wanted it

  


It was right after the first Iceland game, right after The Wrist Incident. It was always spoken of as though it were capitalized. The Wrist Incident.

  


I was sitting on the bench when the Iceland player's stick came crashing down onto Adam's wrist. He announced that he was okay, and the players on the ice skated off, eager to continue the game because now that we'd scored...maybe, just maybe...we had a chance to win...

  


But I couldn't get my mind off Adam. He claimed he was fine, but I knew he was lying. It was something he would do.

  


And I knew. I watched him, I still do. Since the moment we'd been formally introduced, since shock had spiraled down my spine the instant his hand touched mine in a handshake. I hadn't been able to explain it at the time. I just knew it was connected the that _something_ I couldn't quite place. It had been another one of my inklings. And from that moment, from that feeling, I'd watched him.

  


And I watched him then, in_ that_ moment. He hadn't moved from his position next to the goalie's net; it was almost as if he were paralyzed with pain, or with fear, or with...something.

  


He got his head back into the game after a few stunned moments. It didn't matter, though. His goal was the only one we scored all game, and we lost.

  


After Bombay's forced post-game practice, we were all pretty miserable and thought only of the beds into which we would fall the very moment we would return to our rooms. We all showered and changed into our street clothes as quickly as possible. Adam took a seat on the bench and slowly rearranged his gear. He was always the last to leave, after every game, every practice. He still is. I think he likes to be alone with his thoughts, to think about the game...the good and the bad.

  


As we headed to the door, we all patted him on the shoulder and asked how he was. He simply smiled and repeated, "I'm fine," over and over again. I was the last to leave. I passed him and patted his shoulder and asked him how was he was. He smiled and repeated, "I'm fine." I continued on my way, but halfway to the door, I stopped. Impulsively, I grabbed the ACE bandage I always keep in my hockey bag and turned back.

  


His gaze was down, focused on his wrist, as he rotated it...or tried to.

  


I closed the short distance between us and tapped his shoulder. He looked up. I didn't say anything, just held out the ACE bandage. He stared at it for a few moments before wordlessly reaching out and accepting it.

  


"It just looked like you needed it," I said softly.

  


Adam nodded shortly, and I turned once more to leave.

  


"Dwayne," he called out. I turned, dreading the words I was about to hear...somehow, I knew what he was going to say. "Don't tell anyone," he said, his voice pleading.

  


I swallowed hard, letting the conflicting feelings twist in my stomach. I wanted to yell at him, tell him he was being so stupid, that I was taking him to Bombay right now (although at that point, it probably wouldn't have done much good,) that we were going to the hospital, that he was insane if he thought he could play with his wrist the way it was. In the end, I told him what he wanted to hear, "If you're sure, Adam." I still don't know why.

  


He could probably sense the hesitation in my voice, because he hastily tried to explain, "You've gotta understand, Dwayne. The scouts, they're watching, I can't _not_ play."

  


"You could let it heal." I walked back over to him, glad that I was given the opportunity to recant. "You could treat it and let it heal and..."

  


"What if that's not fast enough? What if it's not better until after the Games?"

  


"What if you play with an injury? What if you damage your wrist permanently?" I pressed a finger to Adam's forearm. Adam winced; it appeared even slight pressure was agonizing. "You're in pain, Adam, you need help."

  


"Just let it go," Adam snapped and yanked his wrist away from my touch.

  


I was hurt by his harsh tone. I was only trying...I didn't mean...

  


"I'm sorry, Dwayne, I didn't mean..." Adam trailed off. "But you...you...you understand, right?"

  


I sighed and chose my next words carefully. "I understand where you're coming from, I...but I saw the hit you took, Adam. I heard the crack, I swear I did, I was _watching you_. I understand why you want to play, I really, really do, but I don't understand why you're willing to risk everything just to impress some scouts. You'll play hockey after the Goodwill Games, if you don't play during them...you'll impress them later, Adam. You'll impress them because you're_ good_." 

  


"Where are they going to find me? You think they come to _Edina_? Do you know what a huge opportunity this is?"

  


"Do you know that you're this close to blowing it?" I raised my voice in anger; now he was just starting to piss me off. It was like...I could tell that he really knew he was really hurt, almost like he _knew_ he needed to stop, but that he was trying to be who everyone wanted him to be. He wanted to continue being perfect.

  


"You're not my keeper, Dwayne - I just met you two months ago, you don't know me, you don't understand what hockey means to me!"

  


"I don't understand? I don't understand how important hockey is? Are you insane? I've been playing hockey for _eight years _- it's the only thing that keeps me sane - it's the only thing I'm _actually_ good at! Of course I understand how important hockey is, Adam! I'm just not crazy enough to risk permanent damage to my wrist!"

  


"Well I _am_ crazy enough, Dwayne, so let me go!"

  


"I'm sorry for caring, Adam. I'm sorry for being the only dang person who even _noticed_ how much pain you're in, I'm sorry for thinking that you should do something about it."

  


"Don't _worry_ about me!"

  


"But I do. I'm sorry, but I do. I'm just trying to be your _friend_!"

  


Adam bowed his head, and I waited for a response. When he didn't give me one, I sighed deeply and turned away.

  


I left the locker room, the heels of my hands pressed to my eyes, ebbing the flow of tears. I was Adam's friend...Adam's _friend_. I never knew how much that word hurt me until I had to apply it to him.

  


**

  


And that was the moment I knew.

  


It burns so brightly in my memory; I remember every word, every glance. I remember the crunch of the hockey stick against bone, I remember the tears that filled his eyes when he told me not to worry, I remember the tears that filled _my_ eyes when I walked out on my _friend_.

  


I'm still on my knees in the hallway. I'm not sure when I'll be able to move again. I was thirteen years old, and at that moment, I knew what was missing, I knew how I was different. I knew I was gay, and I knew I was in love with Adam Banks.

  


I was missing perfection, and now that I had come face-to-face with it...I wanted it. 

  


**

  



	5. I don't trust my voice

  


I still want to know perfection, to _really_ know it. To feel it beneath my fingertips and to memorize its touch...I want to taste it, to breathe it in.

  


It has always been so far from my grasp. Even on the ice, even when I discovered my talent for puck handling...it's the only thing I ever found that I'm truly good at...and it _still_ just isn't enough. Hockey doesn't fill the gaping hole I feel inside my chest, the gaping hole that, at age thirteen, at that moment with Adam, I had finally recognized as loneliness and longing. Hockey doesn't make me whole; hockey doesn't make me perfect. 

  


But hockey brought me _to_ perfect. Hockey has been the driving force throughout my entire life. Hockey brought me to the Goodwill Games, hockey helped me figure out what I was missing, hockey helped me recognize what (or, rather, who) I needed to fix it...

  


**

  


I'm lying here in the dark, like every night, trying to sleep, finding it impossible. I managed to avoid the team all day, by spending my hours in the library. Little work was actually accomplished, but I was pleased that there would be no confrontations. Restlessly, I roll over, rustling my sheets and sighing loudly.

  


"Dwayne?" Adam whispers.

  


I freeze; all noise stops. I hadn't known he was awake.

  


I try to stay quiet, but curiosity gets the best of me. "Yeah?"

  


There are long moments of silence, and I wonder if maybe Adam said my name while he was sleeping, while he was dreaming about me...I let my thoughts wander gloriously in that direction, until I hear his whisper again, "Why did you...?" He stops, and the silence stretches out like a drowsy summer afternoon...and when he speaks again, I know it's not what he really wants to ask, "Why do you call me Adam?"

  


Because I know he likes it. Because I know I'm the only one who does it, and I like the feeling it gives me...it makes me feel like I'm unique, like we have a shared secret. Because it's a beautiful name, and "Banks" just doesn't do him justice. 

  


But I can't say that.

  


"It's your name, isn't it?"

  


"But why not Banks like everyone else?"

  


"If you prefer it..."

  


"No," Adam is quick to interrupt. "I just...I like it, I was wondering, I just..."

  


I smile brightly, wanting to untwist the knot of tension in my stomach, trying humor. "If you'd like, I'll call you Cake-"

  


"Don't even finish that thought." 

  


I laugh softly. "Sorry."

  


"Dwayne." Something in the way Adam says my name...the tone between us has changed from lightly playful to serious.

  


I don't respond to him, though. Right now, I don't trust my voice.

  


"Dwayne," he repeats it, more quietly but with more intensity. 

  


"Yes?" I whisper. That's all I can manage.

  


"Don't forget what I said this afternoon. I meant it. You can tell me anything. I thought we were friends." 

  


"That's just the problem," I mutter. He hears it anyway. Of course. I mentally curse Murphy and pull my blankets over my head.

  


"What does that mean?" he asks. 

  


I'm pretty sure he has a good idea, so I don't feel the need to respond.

  


"Dwayne," he says for the third time in as many minutes.

  


"Adam," I take a deep breath. "I just want you to know now...you're going to start drawing conclusions that are probably going to be correct. You're going to realize things that are going to be true. And you're going to start asking me questions that I desperately, desperately want to answer...but just...can't."

  


"Okay," he says and I hear him roll over. 

  


"Okay," I echo gratefully and turn to face the wall.

  


"Actually..." And I hear the rustle of sheets once more. "Not okay. I'm worried about you." He sits up. "_Talk_ to me."

  


I cross the room and sit next to him on his bed, on top of his covers. "Adam, please, you've got to understand. I _do_ trust you and I _do_ care about you."

  


"Well, you sure don't treat me like I'm your friend."

  


I bite my lip nervously, almost to the point of drawing blood. Fine, Adam, you want me to talk to you? "You're the best friend I have on this team and you..." I sigh heavily and hope he knows what he's getting into, because I sure don't. "And...there's always been this gaping hole in my life. It's always been a part of me and I could never explain it; something was always...just..._missing_. And now, and suddenly, I've found what I need to fix it, but I can't have it and I can't fix it, and...I don't know what I'm going to do. There's...there's what I've yearned for since I was eight, and it's almost within my grasp. But I know I'm not allowed to touch it. There are certain things that I just can never have." I pause significantly. "You'll never...what I want, what I _need_...I can't have. It's not allowed to be mine. Never has been, never will be."

  


Adam leans forward and gazes at me. With the moonlight drifting through the window, providing the only light in the room, I imagine that the scene appears somewhat romantic. His gaze is serious and intent and I am lost for a moment before I realize he's speaking.

  


"How do you know?" he asks.

  


"Because...it's just a fact. I've always known."

  


"But how? Why?"

  


I shake my head in frustration. He'll never understand. How can he? He has everything that I want.

  


Aw, hell, he _is_ everything that I want.

  


I feel wetness on my cheeks, and I hadn't even realized that I'm crying. Adam reaches up and tentatively stretches his hand toward my face. I blink and feel tears cling to my eyelashes, a few escaping to slide down and drip off my chin.

  


Before I know what he's going to do his fingers are gently brushing away my tears. I close my eyes and allow myself this moment. And it's almost like I'm _there_.

  


It's like..it's this bright, glowing ball hanging before me, dazzling me, tantalizing me. And it's right _there_, within my reach....

  


But still, no one is more surprised than I am when I grab perfection by the wrist and taste perfection on my mouth.

  


**

  



	6. I've laid it all out on the line

  


Adam breaks away from the kiss first, and his cheeks are glistening. And I don't know if those are my tears or his or both, and I lean forward, because I want to check. I want to _know_, but Adam jumps back like a frightened rabbit.

  


He moves away from me, slides gracefully from beneath the covers, and stands in one smooth, swift motion, and suddenly I'm looking up at him. He towers above me and he's gazing to the ceiling and breathing more heavily than usual.

  


"Dwayne," he beings, and I still love the way he says my name, love the way the syllable rolls off his tongue.

  


But my heart is breaking because I know what he's going to say and suddenly, I jump up. I don't want to hear it. I don't need this right now. I don't need him to confirm what I already know, because now that will be pain that I seriously don't think I can handle. And the hole is widening, splitting me, splitting my soul in two and nothing...nothing will be able to fix it now.

  


But he towers above me and I'm looking up at him and I realize sadly that this still isn't true. Nothing can fix me but the boy in front of me with glistening cheeks...with sandy blonde hair that sweeps across his forehead, because he's too careless to brush it away and soft, soft blue eyes..the boy with the deep, perfectly-pitched voice that's repeating my name over and over.

  


I hear it through a sort of fog, and I can't focus. I don't hear what he's saying, I can only guess, and my guesses aren't happy.

  


"I'm sorry," I choke out, probably interrupting him.

  


The voice stops and the soft, soft blue eyes are locked with mine.

  


"Adam," I continue, not quite sure where I'm headed with this. "I never meant...I didn't plan...you're the one thing that can fix me..."

  


"Dwayne, I'm n - "

  


"You are. I know it because...because when we shook hands when we first met, I felt the electricity course through my body. Because I'm just a boy from Texas who can handle a puck - and lasso some cattle - and not much else. Because I will never be perfect and because you _are_. Because...because when I'm around you, the hole in my heart seems to close, just a little bit each time. You don't even have to _do_ anything. You're just there and you fix me. And that...it has to mean...you're...you're...you can bring me perfection."

  


Adam stays silent, but he's shaking his head.

  


"I'm sorry. I love you." The tears are slipping, unabashedly. I swallow the huge lump in my throat. "I'm sorry I love you."

  


Now that I've finally said the words aloud, I feel...relief, happiness, anguish, sadness. These and millions of other colorful emotions flood through my body at once. The weight is lifted off my shoulders...and immediately replaced directly on my heart.

  


I give Adam once long, lingering glance. Then I exit through the door, letting it click softly shut behind me...and I hit the ground running as soon as I'm in the hallway.

  


**

  


I'm breathing heavily by the time I burst out the main entrance and run into the quad. It's well past curfew, and the doors lock themselves behind me. I don't have my card key, so it looks like I'll be spending the night under the stars.

  


I sit on a bench that is cold beneath my flannel-clad legs. I hardly notice.

  


I can't believe I did what I just did.

  


Three years. Three long years, from the Goodwill Games at age thirteen to now, a sixteen-year-old junior at Eden Hall...I discovered my emotions, was finally able to handle them...finally able to _hide_ them and now...now, in a moment of what I can only think was insanity, I have ruined everything.

  


I'm sure Adam had already begun to suspect.

  


But to actually have...the fact that I just...

  


I can't believe I did what I just did.

  


I replay the moments before the kiss in my mind over and over. I can't stop the images, can't stop the sound, and it's driving me absolutely crazy.

  


It had just seemed...in that moment, it had just seemed like it was the right thing to do. I hadn't even thought about it; it was as if I just knew that I _could_ do it...and that I _should_ do it and...so I had. 

  


My roommate, my best friend on the team, my...crush...love-interest...Adam.

  


I wonder what he's doing right now. Sitting alone in our room...is he hurt? Angry? Stunned? Maybe a little bit of everything...

  


Better than a little bit of nothing, which is what _I'm_ feeling right now.

  


I feel empty and hollow, like I've just expunged everything that was inside me...I've laid it all out on the line, everything I've considered near and dear...and secret...it's all exposed and Adam knows and Adam...doesn't want it. Doesn't want _me_ is more like it.

  


I lie back along the cold, cold bench and gaze up at the stars. It is a clear, frosty November night, and the stars shine bright and huge, they look bigger than I've ever seen them before. I exhale and watch my breath hang in puffs in the air.

  


And I _am_ sorry I love him, if only for his sake.

  


I'm sorry I have to put him through this, that he's put in a position where he has to hurt me.

  



	7. I am completely shellshocked

  


I sit on my bed in the corner of the room and lean my back against the wall. I am staring blankly out into space, and it's the most interesting thing I've done all day.

  


I've missed all of my classes. There was no way I'd have been able to function, especially in the two classes I share with Adam...even if they _are_ only gym and lunch. (Adam is in all the advanced courses and I'm...not.)

  


Once the building was unlocked, I crept in as quietly as possible. By the time I arrived back to our room, Adam was already awake and in the shower. I climbed into bed and lie there, silent and still. Adam either didn't notice me or didn't acknowledge the fact that he had because twenty minutes later, I heard the door shut behind him.

  


I call Coach Orion and let him know that I'm not going to be able to make it to the after-school practice today. I tell him that I'm sick and that I got very little sleep last night. I can tell by his tone of voice that he's worried about me. He doesn't push the issue though, much to my surprise, and lets me off the hook, with a warning that if I miss any more, I'll be benched the next game.

  


I tell him I understand and thank him for allowing me to miss.

  


After I hang up the phone, I go back to staring at the nothingness before me.

  


Suddenly, the nothingness is replaced with Adam.

  


"Dwayne," he says quietly, and I jump three feet into the air. "Sorry," he mutters his apology.

  


"Adam!" What the _hell_ is he doing here? "Why aren't you at practice?"

  


"I told Orion that since you're sick, you need me, your roommate, to look after you,"Adam offers a small smile. I don't return one.

  


"I'm not sick," I mutter. I can't think of anything else to say. Maybe it will make him go away. I know it won't, even as I think it, even as I say it out loud, try it.

  


"I know. I lied," Adam replies simply.

  


I glance at him sharply then tear my eyes away, look just over and beyond his left shoulder.

  


"Look, Dwayne, we need to talk."

  


"Not now." I move to stand up, and Adam's hand pushes me back down to the bed.

  


"Yes, now."

  


I stubbornly try to stand up again, but Adam pushes me down once more and levels me with a hard glare. I close my eyes briefly and cross my arms, waiting for...well, I'm not exactly sure...I don't know whether Adam will hit me or start to yell or start to cry...I have no idea what his reaction will be, and all this uncertainty makes me a bit nervous...well, terrified, really...

  


"Dwayne...and please don't stop me, you need to hear this, and I have to tell you now...Bear with me, I don't really know how to convey my feelings into actual words." He takes a deep breath, looks as though he's mentally preparing himself. "Dwayne...I think the first thing you need to know...is that I'm gay, too."

  


I am completely shell-shocked.

  


What am I supposed to say to _this_?

  


What is my reaction supposed to be?

  


I don't quite know, and...when Adam told me he needed to talk to me...if I'd been given a million guesses, this wouldn't have been one of them. The room is spinning, just a bit, and I probably would hit the floor in shock if it weren't for Adam standing right there...the only thing keeping me functioning is my desperate need to hear everything else he has to say.

  


"No one really knows. My parents and my brother do...a few of my other relatives. None of my friends, none of the Ducks, although Charlie's asked me about it a couple times, so he obviously suspects. I was thinking about coming out just before Christmas break, at our annual party...but...I guess I thought _you_ should know now."

  


I know he told me not to interrupt him, but I can't resist. "Why?"

  


He sighs. "Just because...it's a piece of information you need to have before you can hear anything else I have to say."

  


I'm smiling, I'm sure of it, I'm smiling so hard my face hurts, and when Adam looks up from his hands he was so intently studying, he frowns deeply, and shakes his head, ever so slightly. I notice.

  


"It's not...just...don't get your hopes up."

  


I lean back against the wall; all the air has whooshed out of my lungs. That brief moment of happiness had been...it had been like nothing I'd ever felt or experienced before. I'd wanted it to last forever and...now my hopes were most certainly not up; they'd crashed into the ground with the sadness in his voice.

  


"But I just wanted to let you know that I'm gay, so...I'm not..." He's struggling to find the right words, and I have to interrupt him again.

  


"Don't worry about being blunt, Adam. There's not much more you can do to my heart; it's already broken."

  


Pain flashes very briefly through his eyes. "I didn't mean to..."

  


"I know you didn't," I say softly. "But that didn't stop it from happening."

  


"I just..." He's struggling again, trying to regain control of the conversation, regain his composure. "We can't be together, Dwayne, and I just want you to know that it's not because I'm not gay or not..." he swallows thickly, "attracted to you."

  


I'm struck again with no idea of how to react. I simply open my mouth then close it again...I repeat this action several times, and I must look like a completely idiotic goldfish.

  


"It's just..." He stops for the umpteenth time in our conversation that was supposed to be a diatribe. He chuckles softly and shakes his head, incredulously. "I just, I never thought I'd be having this conversation with you. I mean, we all thought...Connie..."

  


Ah, yes, I was well aware of what the team all thought. The fact that I'd saved Connie from the Icelandic goon was material that caused the two of us to be teased for weeks following. It would have been too difficult (and I was nowhere _near_ ready) to explain the fact that I'd prefer the _other_ half of Connie-and-Guy than the pretty brunette I'd rescued, so I let the teasing continue until Portman caught Julie and Russ kissing in the locker room, which became new fodder for the jokes...

  


Besides, I was just being a gentleman. Where I come from, we treat ladies with respect.

  


"But, I'd kind of always known," Adam continues. "I'd noticed there was something _different _about you. I just never thought it was the same thing as was different about me. But I'd wondered, especially recently...my ideas were slowly becoming solidified. It wasn't necessarily that you became more obvious. I think I just knew what to look for, and I saw it." My cheeks burn. "And the things you said...you did become more bold, I think. And I...I was sure. I didn't know how to react, really, I didn't know what to say to you. But I could tell it was affecting you, you looked as if you were slowly suffering, slowly going insane. Sleeping in, spacing out...having to leave practice. I told you I would be there for you. I still want to be there. And I thought...I thought the best way was to just ask you about it."

  


I listen in silence, my cheeks still bright red and very warm. It seemed like Adam watched me like I watched him. Only I was too busy _watching him_ to notice.

  


"So I did. Or...I tried to, but you stopped me. And I might as well have asked you, because you gave me the answer anyway. And then...what you said, I wasn't expecting it, I wasn't expecting it at all. What you think about missing something, about being imperfect, about needing..." he stops abruptly, "_something_ to fix it."

  


"You," I whisper, feeling suddenly compelled and not caring about interrupting him. "Not just _something_, Adam. You. I need you. I really do."

  


He looks down, suddenly fascinated with his hands again. His hair falls into his eyes and tears shine on his eyelashes. "Please don't tell me that, Dwayne. You're making this harder than it already is."

  


"What's so hard?"

  


"Telling you that I can't...I can't be the one to fix you, Dwayne. I can't give that to you, and you can't ask that of me."

  


"But..."

  


"Dwayne," Now _he_ interrupts _me_, "you can't do this to me. And you certainly can't do this to yourself."

  


"But you said...you're gay! And you even said you're attracted to me. You've done more than I ever could. You said it, I just don't understand why you're pushing me away. I don't understand why we can't be together."

  


"Because I don't want you to be with me just to fix some void in your life, some hole in your soul. We can't do this...we can't do this to ourselves."

  


I'm sitting here, not quite understanding everything that's going on in front of me. I'm listening to these words, half of which I never thought I'd hear - Adam is gay, Adam is attracted to me, Adam could want to be with me - and the other half I never _wanted_ to hear - Adam can't be with me, we can't be together, we can't do this to ourselves...

  


Nothing's clicking in my brain. 

  


_Maybe I am an idiot._

  


I just don't understand why we can't make it work.

  


I tell him so.

  


"Dwayne...we can't make it work, because we'll never be in a real relationship."

  


"What are you talking about? A 'real' relationship? I love you! Is that real enough for you? I love you, I love you!"

  


"Please, stop. _Please_."

  


"I can't stop. I can't stop loving you. It's not just going to happen."

  


"Dwayne, do you love _me_ or do you love the _idea_ of me? Do you love everything that you think you know about me, everything that you wish you had?"

  


I'm crying now, because he knows me so well, because he understands things that I feel and can articulate them better than I can. "I just know..." I hiccup softly. "I just know that when I'm with you...I love you...and...you just make me feel so...you're everything that I want, that I need."

  


"And I can't_ be_ what you _need_, Dwayne," he stops and looks as though he's very carefully choosing his next words. "We can't do this to ourselves. You can't put me on such a pedestal, you can't have these expectations of me, because...I'll never be able to fulfill them. I don't want to disappoint you, I don't want to hurt you, believe me, I don't. But I can't give you what you want. I can't try to be perfect for you, because I'm _not_ perfect. I don't know why or how you think I am, but I just...I can't say yes and then not be what you want."

  


"But _you_ are what I want."

  


Adam shakes his head, closes his eyes. "I can't be."

  


"Can't we just...try?" And damned if my voice doesn't crack on the word "try." I swear, I've cried more in the past five days that I have in the three _years_ before. I've shed more tears over this boy in front of me than anyone else, except my father.

  


"No." Adam says bluntly.

  


Okay, well, I need to be out of here. Now.

  


Adam doesn't try to stop me as I brush past him, cursing the fact that my skin still tingles when it comes in contact with his.

  
  



	8. Is that all I really want?

I'm in the hallway, and I have no idea where I think I'm going. My heart is lodged in my throat, my blood pounds in my ears, my stomach literally aches. Because no matter how much sense Adam thinks he's making (and how much I understand where he's coming from) it hurts. It's nearly the worst pain I've felt in my life, eclipsed only by the sharp, burning pain that followed my father's death for months.

And thinking about Dad just causes me to lose it completely. I walk along the hallways, crying openly and praying that no one sees me. Apparently, God thinks I've had enough for the day, and I make it to my floor's empty study lounge. It's a small room with two long tables in the middle and various comfortable chairs scattered near the windows. I sink into a plush red armchair and lean back, stretching my legs in front of me. I throw my arm across my eyes and feel my sleeve turning wet with my continuing, seemingly endless tears.

I can't take this emotional roller coaster anymore - despite the fact that I've brought it all on myself. Not intentionally, of course. It's just…the way I _am_ has brought me so much pain. 

My stomach chooses this moment to rumble loudly, protesting the fact that I haven't eaten in thirty-odd hours. I decide to ignore it. Food is the _last_ thing on my mind in this moment. I sit in solitude and silence for a long time…hours probably…or maybe it only seems that way, I don't know. I don't think I know anything anymore.

Suddenly, there's a hand on my shoulder, and I know who it is immediately. No need to move my arm, no need to hear his voice. Why is he here?

"I just figured…"

I sense him set something on the arm of the chair. Nothing else is said, and I know he leaves. I still don't move for several long, drawn-out minutes. When I finally glance at the arm, I see a ham sandwich sitting there.

This is normally absolutely nothing remarkable, but just the sight of it sets off fresh tears.

See. See! Why doesn't Adam understand, this is why I love him, this is why I need him? He knows me, he knows where I go, when I'm hungry…he even knows my favorite sandwich. Of course, these could all be lucky guesses…but I dismiss that thought immediately, I don't like that train of thought, especially after some of today's revelations.

  
I eat hungrily for a few moments, thankful for the food and for the distraction from my heavy thoughts. If only he'd thought to include a drink…as if I should be _picky_ in a moment like this. I feel guilty, but when I stand to throw away the napkin on which the sandwich was sitting, my eyes fall on the can sitting on the ground just next to the chair. Minute Maid lemonade - of course, lemonade is my favorite.

Irrationally, I'm angry at Adam. How dare he do this to me? How dare he (albeit reasonably, thinking it's the best for both him and me) spurn me and then go…go…caring? It only reaffirms his perfection in my mind, and then…I suddenly, fully, _finally_ realize, with complete sadness, that the very reason I love him is the very reason he can't _let_ me love him.

Perfection. Is that really all I want? Did I really only want to use him to make myself better - to make myself _feel_ better? Is Adam my model of perfection? Or did I force him to fit the model?

It's much too deep for my drained mind, heart, and body to deal with, although suddenly I'm filled with shame, like my feelings aren't real, were never real…that Adam's the one who feels, who loves, that _I'm_ the one who hurt _him_, that he's the one in pain. And if it feels anything like him…I feel completely awful that I caused him pain like that.

I am not an idiot. I certainly am coming to a very full, very unexpected understanding. As much as I don't want to think about this, to focus on this…my brain just won't listen to me. It believes now is a perfectly acceptable time to rehash everything.

I am not an idiot. I am not a simple person. In fact, I am more complicated that _I_ can even fathom.

But…maybe I was…am…a little blind?

But I still think my feelings were…are…real. I truly do.

And I'm crying _again_.

But these are angry tears, tears of confusion and frustration - tears for a loss I don't understand and a love that may not exist.


	9. I should have known

I rub at my eyes.

  


They're sore and aching, and I'm sure they're bloodshot and red-rimmed. I must look like hell, and I feel much worse.

  


I rest my face in my hands and my elbows on my knees, and I take in several heavy, shuddering breaths. I calm myself and breathe deeply through my nose. I hold my position for a count of ten seconds, before shakily exhaling. I do this several times, and the repetition calms my nerves and settles my stomach.

  


How could I have missed it?

  


How could I have been so focused on Adam, how could I think that I knew him so well, that I loved him so much, and yet have not known the two biggest secrets he held so close? 

  


How could I have been so blind?

  


I should have known. Why didn't I know? How could I possibly have missed...?

  


Memories wash over me suddenly, like a flood. I remember little things - Adam running his hands through my hair, Adam always trying to pass _me_ the puck first, Adam always sitting next to me at meals and on the buses to away games, Adam brushing away my tears and taking care of me when I'm really sick and telling off anyone who ever said a negative word to me.

  


How could I never have noticed this before?

  


Of course, I _noticed_ that he did these things, but they never added up to anything significant in my mind. He was just looking out for me. He is my roommate, he is my best friend, he is a Duck, and "Ducks fly together" and all that good stuff.

  


I just never let myself _really_ notice them. I was too convinced that he would never, that he could never...I'm so frustrated now, how did I miss it, all these months, all these...years...?

  


I take several more calming breaths and let my mind flow back to moments with Adam, moments when I realize now that I should have known.

  


Moments where, maybe in his own way, maybe without realizing it...he was trying to tell me...

  


_Adam is searching through his closet. Everyone thinks he's a neat freak, but that's only because he shoves nearly everything he owns into the closet and then shuts the door before anything can fall out. _

  


_I laugh at the mess he makes as he throws clothes out over his shoulder; they land in a heap on the floor. _

  


_"Dammit," he swears loudly._

  


_I look over from my desk, where I'm trying (rather unsuccessfully, mostly due to a distraction named Adam) to work on an English composition. "What's wrong?" I ask._

  


_"I lost my wallet," he replies, without moving from his position kneeling before his closet. Half his body is inside his closet, and I hear several more curse words as practically his entire wardrobe comes flying into the room._

  


_"Anything I can do to help?"_

  


_"I guess...if you could just look around..." He exits the (apparently empty) closet and turns to survey the heap of clothes. He must decide that the wallet is definitely in the pile, because he kneels next to the mound and starts rummaging through the clothes, reaching into pockets and shaking out t-shirts. I abandon my composition, and I bend above him, doing my best to help him look. Suddenly, he pulls it out of the cargo pocket of a pair of khakis and stands back up, not knowing I'm right there. The crown of his head connects with my nose._

  


_"Argh!" I grab my face in anguish. I put my fingers to my nose, and they come away wet and warm. My nose trickles slightly...and then blood is gushing down my face. I clamp my mouth shut tightly and bring my hands back up to my nose, trying to stop the flow as best I can._

  


_"Holy shit, Dwayne, I'm so sorry!" _

  


_"Id's fide," I reply as best I can, with my nose completely clogged...and still gushing blood._

  


_He races out of the room and returns a few moments later, with a wet washcloth in his hand._

  


_"Sit, sit," he instructs me, as I am still standing dumbly in the middle of the room, my brain and body both frozen, with no idea what to do. _

  


_I sit down on my bed, my now-bloody hands still pressed against my face, still trying unsuccessfully to ebb the flow. _

  


_He uses his left hand to hold my wrists together and pulls them away. _

  


_"Keep your head level," he says softly, and sets the washcloth on his leg and reaches for the tissues I keep on my bedside table, next to my alarm clock. His left hand still holds my wrists as he presses the tissues against my nose and upper lip._

  


_"I cad - " I start to say, but he silences me with a soft "Shh..."_

  


_"Let me," he says quietly. "I'm sorry, Dwayne."_

  


_I shrug cheerfully, trying to ignore the tension in this moment, the spirals coiling and uncoiling themselves in my stomach. "Dot on puh-pose," I say._

  


_My nose is no longer bleeding, but my face is covered, my shirt is ruined, and my hands (still held by Adam) are completely red. He presses the washcloth against my face and gently cleans away the blood. He refuses to let me go, and he gazes at me carefully, trying to gauge the damage. I flush bright red under his scrutiny and close my eyes._

  


_"Are you okay?" he asks._

  


_"I thindk so," I say. I open my eyes, and he is still staring at me._

  


_"Is it broken?" He reaches up to gently press my nose._

  


_It hurts, but the pain is not agonizing. "Doe, pwobuhby dot."_

  


_"But it hurts?"_

  


_I shrug. Of course it does. But I can't have him feeling guilty. _

  


_"I'm so, so sorry. I never meant to hurt you, I didn't know you were there, I just..." He is frantically stumbling over his words, apologizing like he's worried I'll never forgive him._

  


_"Adab, Adab, id's fide!" I try to reassure him, pat the back of his hand. "I'b fide, dod't worry!"_

  


_He turns his hand over and holds mine gently. I feel the blood rush to my cheeks and stare down, focusing on our suddenly entwined hands, and I never want him to let go._

  


_"You should lie down," he says. "You lost some blood, do you feel lightheaded?"_

  


_I do, but not necessarily from the bloody nose from which I have just recovered. I only faintly nod and lay back on my bed. _

  


_Adam breaks our contact and leaves to throw away the tissues and rinse out the washcloth in the bathroom. When he returns, my eyes are closed, but I'm not asleep. When I roll onto my side and open them twenty minutes later, he is sitting by my beside, watching me..._

  


...I should have known, I should have known...

  


These words repeat in my head over and over, almost like a chant, almost like a taunt...

  


...I should have known...I should have known...

  


Maybe things would be different now, if only I had recognized those moments for what they were...

  


If only...

  


_After The Wrist Incident, I guess Adam just knew he could trust me, just knew that I...cared._

  


_We started to spend a lot of time together, even though we weren't sharing a room at the dorms where we were staying. I went out of my way to spend time with him...I would help him do the things he had trouble with, since his arm was in a sling...I would make it a point to sit next to him at meals or to skate near him at practice (he still insisted on lacing up with us, although he couldn't do any of the drills) or to just...hang out. We started talking, and the best friendship of my life was formed... _

  


_It's six-twenty-three in the morning. I stumble to the door, my shirt half-twisted, my hair and clothes equally rumpled. My alarm isn't set to go off for another hour, at least._

  


_Everyone else is dead to the world (understandably) so yanking open the door, I stand there, barely-conscious and very, very annoyed (understandably.) _

  


_Adam stands there, hair all over the place, in a t-shirt and boxers._

  


_"I'm so glad you're awake!"_

  


_I freeze, staring openly, before collecting my thoughts and asking, "What's wrong?"_

  


_"Nothing. Nothing! Everything's right!" He can barely contain his excitement, and I wonder briefly where he gets so much energy so early in the morning._

  


_At the same time, I'm also very confused about his statement until Adam holds out his wrist – sans cast – and exclaims, "It's healed!"_

  


_"What?!"_

  


_"I woke up, and it doesn't even hurt." The bruising has yellowed now, and the slight swelling has completely gone down. "I can play!"_

  


_I smile widely. "Adam, that's great! I'm so happy for you, I know how much this means to you."_

  


_His smile is wider than mine. He grabs my shoulders with his hands, and for a moment, I am worried (thrilled) he's going to kiss me. Instead, he pulls me into one of those unwieldy guy hugs." I am shocked and have no idea what to do with my arms. I settle for awkwardly patting his back._

  


_He pulls away and looks into my eyes._

  


_"I'm sorry," he says softly, so softly I'm not quite sure it's not just my imagination. "I should have listened to you, Dwayne." He speaks a little louder now. "I was being ridiculous, I see that now. I just wanted - "_

  


_"It's okay." I stop him. I don't need to hear it. I understand. And I know his apology is sincere._

  


_There's a long moment of silence. I am suddenly very fascinated with the hem of my t-shirt, I am pulling at it when his hand rests over mine. I look up._

  


_"Thank you," he says._

  


_I nod slightly, and he steps back._

  


_"I just...I'll let you get back to sleep. I know I wake up really early, I just...I had to tell you." He rotates his wrist smoothly, and we both smile._

  


_He walks back down the hall to his room. I watch him until he closes his door before I close my own. I cross the room and climb back into bed. I don't sleep, of course._

  


...Maybe things would be different...

  



	10. I shall believe

Hours…has it been hours? I don't know, I can't tell…later, I'm still cursing hindsight. I tried to shut off my brain, but the moments, the memories, keep coming back to back, perpetual, reminding me of my blindness…

__

I stare down at the jumble of numbers and letters on the page before me. I'm supposed to make sense of them, find the point where the two equations -- which, apparently, represent lines on a graph -- are equal.

What?

My mind is blank. I have no recollection of learning anything that might possibly be useful in helping me figure out these problems. And more importantly, I don' care. These are two lines floating somewhere in space, and someone with way too much time on his hands made up some mumbo-jumbo symbols to represent them. I am never going to need this anywhere for any reason.

I sigh heavily and throw down my pencil.

I look over to Adam's desk, where he is hunched over, scribbling intently. The tip of his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth, like it always does when he's concentrating really hard.

"What are you working on?" I can't help but ask.

He jerks his head in my direction. I've started him, I realize when it takes him a few moments to clear the cobwebs and answer.

"Calculus."

He's using a pen, I note. He's doing calculus, and he's using a pen. Brilliant bastard. But I think this fondly. I can't begrudge him his intelligence.

"Derivatives," he adds.

The word flies right over my head.

I must look like the word flies over my head, because he asks, "Is something wrong?"

"No, nothing…" I turn my attention back to the book and looseleaf papers in front of me. I pick up my pencil again and start idly tracing concentric circles in the margins.

  
Suddenly, his chin is resting on my shoulder. "Anything I can help you with?"

"No, don't' worry about it." His eyes are scanning the page already anyway. "Adam, seriously. Don't worry about it. You have your derives to worry about."

"Derivatives," he corrects, but it's not mocking, it's gentle. He understands that I don' know. "I really don't mind, Dwayne. I loved Algebra II. Finding the intersections of graphs?"

I nod. His chin is still on my shoulder, and my ear brushes his cheek. Said ear is suddenly hotter than the surface of the sun. I bump my pencil off my desk so that I have to bend to pick it up, and he must move.

Not that I mind Adam being in my personal space, but I just…frankly, I don't trust myself when he touches me. Adam's a very touchy-feely kind of guy -- but only with certain members of the team. Me, Charlie, the girls…we're who he's the most comfortable with. And when he's around me, when he's so close…I just want to take these moments as invitations, as little white gilded cards announcing that I'm welcome, that he wants me.

But I push these thoughts out of my head, and try to understand Adam, who's gesturing wildly with a pencil, talking a mile a minute, and pointing to various illustrations and equations in my book. I follow as best I can. Math is just not my thing. Basically, anything off the ice is not my thing. And, as I well know, everything is Adam's "thing." And he sits there next to me, shoulders touching, knees brushing, for two and a half hours, until I understand.

I don't know why I'm sitting here, insisting on torturing myself as if it's the only way I can cope with the situation. I rub my hands against my (dry) face and realize that I _need_ to confide in someone. Now that I've lost Adam -- and I know I've lost him, things will never be the same, they can't -- I'm left basically alone. Aside from him, there's no one I really talk to. Russ and I are probably the next-closest, but…I don't know…I don't want to bother him, to burden him, with my problems. It might also have something to do with the fact that I am still in the closet to ninety-nine percent of the people I know, and I'm not quite sure he should be the next person I come out to. Plus, he's preoccupied with Julie…

I'm just making excuses, I know I am…and I really do feel that I should talk to someone…

I hear the heavy door of the room being shut behind me…whoever it is…

I turn. "Oh!" It's Connie. "Hey."

"Hey, Dwayne. I figured I'd check in here, see if anyone was here studying…a bunch of us are leaving the grounds to get some dinner. I know you were feeling sick earlier, but…you with?"

I shake my head slowly. "Naw, I don't think so."

"Something wrong?"

"Yes," I say before I chicken out.

She's a bit taken aback by my straightforwardness.

I continue hastily, "And I really think I need to talk to someone…"

"Well," she grabs my wrist, "you can always talk to me."

I sigh gratefully. "Right now?" Then I remember why she came to find me in the first place. "Oh, right -- dinner."

"No. Right now. Forget dinner, I'm not all that hungry anyway. The others can just go ahead." She must be able to tell that what's on my mind is serious and important. "Let's go to my room. Julie's definitely going, so we'll be alone and we won't be interrupted."

I mutely nod and follow her to the stairwell, then down one flight. We pass Julie on the way down the hall, and Connie tells her that she and I aren't going out with everyone else. Julie raises her eyebrows but doesn't ask any questions (thankfully) and agrees to pass on the message. 

Connie unlocks her door, and we step inside. Soft music is playing.

"_And not everything is gonna be the way you think it ougtta be. Seems like every time I try to make it right, it all comes down on me. Please say honestly, you won't give up on me. And I shall believe. I sh-_"

Connie hit's a button on Julie's small, red beside CD player.

"Sorry. Jules always leaves her music playing. Sheryl Crow is her latest favorite."

I shrug, trying to look casual. "Not a problem."

There is awkward, deafening silence for a few moments. She sits on her neatly-made bed and gestures for me to sit next to her. I do, concentrating on the dark blue bedspread, then on the bright yellow pillows…anything but her, anything that means I don't have to acknowledge the fact that I'm going to have to start talking any minute now.

"You can trust me, Dwayne," she says.

"I know."

"You don't _have_ to talk, you know. But you asked, and I'm here, I'm willing to listen."

I wipe my sweaty palms on my thighs and take a few deep breaths.

"Dwayne…" she puts her hand on my knee.

And suddenly everything comes spilling out. My mind doesn't censor anything that comes out of my mouth. And Connie listens.

When I tell her I'm gay, the smallest emotion -- startled, unsure, upset -- flickers across her face, and know she's thinking about that day, that kiss, and how I pushed her away. He cheeks color prettily, and even though I'm opening up to her, even though _she's_ supposed to comfort _me_, I reach out and gently grasp her hand. She squeezes twice and smiles, and she doesn't say anything, she doesn't need to.

I press on, words tumbling out over each other, and I fumble a few times, getting tongue-tied and flustered. She hasn't let go of my hand, and she holds it still when it starts shaking, her thumb gently tracing circles in my palm.

And when I've finally finished, I turn to her, with wide, surprisingly-dry eyes and an earnest expression. There are long, drawn-out moments, where she sits clutching my hand and tracing those soothing circles. Her eyes are dark, clouded-over, and she starts to speak several times, but closes her mouth before any words come out.

I know I've unburdened so much, such heaviness…and maybe she doesn't know what to say.

But it doesn't matter. I feel better just knowing that someone else _knows_, that she knows, that I told her.

I feel more relaxed than I have in a long time, and I slump down a little, spent and relieved.

I don't need her advice, really, I just need her to be there. I tell her as much, and she smiles a little.

"Good," she says, "because I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to say. Although," she pauses for a minute, presses her hand to her mouth, like she does when she's trying to formulate the correct phrasing in her mind, "I want you to know first of all that I support you and that I don't think any less of you and that…you're still the same Dwayne."

I smile. I wasn't worried about what Connie would think of me, I knew her to be open-minded, but it's nice to hear the words.

She stops for a minute before adding, "Adam, too, of course." I am struck with a flash of guilt for outing Adam as well as myself, but it was necessary to have the healing conversation, and I think Connie can tell what I'm feeling, as she continues, "I'll tell no one, you know. As far as he is concerned, I don't know until he chooses to tell me."

"Thank you. You understand that I had to tell you…for things to make sense."

"Of course." Her hand is at her mouth again, for a few minutes, until she says, "I don't know what to say to you, Dwayne. I've never been in a situation like this - "

"It's okay, Connie. I feel better just having talked about it, just having voiced what's happened."

"But I want so badly to help you. I just," her voice cracks a little, like her heart is breaking for me, "can't. I think that if things are meant to work out, they will. I think that you both have some thing to work out in your minds before you can ever be happy…before you can ever be happy _together_. It's going to take some time, I can tell you that. I think you need to really examine your relationship with Adam, your reasons for your feelings, because I don't think they are what you think they are." 

This, admittedly, comes as a shock. I've always been so sure of my feelings for Adam, always been so sure that I love him because of who he is, because he's so perfect. To hear her say that I love him for other reasons…gives me pause, and the wheels are suddenly turning, spinning. It's too much to process, and I abruptly stand.

She's still holding my hand, and she's pulled up with me. "Dwayne," she closes the distance between us and hugs me tightly. "I want you to be happy."

"I know. I want to be happy, too."

The hug, if possible, tightens. "I wish I knew what to say to make everything right for you."

"I just needed you to be my shoulder to cry on, the person I can count on."

"I am, I am. Come to me anytime, Dwayne. Day or night. I'll be here for you."

I know she sincerely means that, and I pull back, see that her eyelashes are glistening. "Don't worry about me, Connie. I didn't come here for you to worry about me."

"Oh, I _know_," she says, but her voice is clogged, like she suppressing the tears. "But you know I will anyway."

"Try not to."

I walk toward the door, with her in tow.

"Keep me posted, okay?" she requests.

  
"That I will." I lean down and kiss her cheek. "Thank you, Connie…so much. I needed you. Thank you."

"Anytime."

I leave her room, and she closes the door behind me.

I head back to my room; it's nearing midnight. Adam's packing. I panic, I don't understand, but then I remember that tomorrow after classes, Thanksgiving break starts. I should start packing, too, actually, now that I think of it -- I have a flight tomorrow at five -- but I have neither the desire nor the energy.

I flop back onto my bed with a heavy sigh. Adam's back stiffens, and he pauses in the middle of folding a white t-shirt. He doesn't say anything, thought, and after a moment, resumes packing, though noticeably more awkwardly and slowly than before.

When he's finished, he slings his book bag over his shoulder and picks up his small suitcase. I sit up and look over at him.

"I'm not staying here," he announces.

"Permanently?" I ask; I'm afraid to hear his answer.

  
He's silent for a beat. "I don't know."

Well. He may as well have just thrust his hand into my chest and ripped out my heart.

"Oh."

"I just…it's not you, Dwayne. After our talk, you should be able to realize this."

"Oh." I can't make my mouth form the words I want it to, although my brain is going full-speed, screaming out protests.

He sighs and sets down his suitcase.

"It's Tuesday, right? Thanksgiving break starts tomorrow. We'll be apart anyway. I just…I can't stay here tonight."

"Where will you be?"

He hesitates. "With Charlie and Guy."

"Oh." 

He reaches out and rests his hand on my forearm. "Have a nice holiday, Dwayne."

"Yeah…you, too. See you Sunday, then."

He pauses in the doorway. "Maybe," he says without turning around.

I nod, although he cannot see me.

He leaves, and the door shuts softly behind him.

I flop back down again and kick the wall angrily. I am greeted with a retaliatory pound from my next-door neighbors, but I don't care. Things are even more destroyed that I initially realized.

I hated the use of the word "friend" when it cam to Adam, but I think we've lost even that. And now I'd do anything -- absolutely anything -- to have it back.

I can't do this now. I can't analyze everything, like before. My brain hurts, my heart hurts…I can't do this.

  
I distract myself with my history questions and then, when those are complete, with packing. When my duffel bag is full, I'm too exhausted -- mentally more than anything -- to do anything, so I collapse into bed.

And for the first time in a long time, sleep comes immediately.


	11. I'm tired and weary

I step off the plane into the familiar Austin airport terminal. The weather is several degrees warmer here than it was in Minnesota, so I immediately remove the jacket I'm wearing and fold it over my arm.

I'm tired and weary; the nearly three-hour flight had been long and turbulent. It had been delayed by inclement weather back in Minnesota, which makes the arrival in the Texas heat that much more welcoming. The little girl next to me for the entire flight was one of the chattiest people I had ever met. Her name was Annie and she was only six and she was flying to see her daddy and was I going to see my daddy, and did I like turkey, because she did, and stuffing, too? And when the plane hit its turbulent patches, she started to cry, her sobs getting louder with each bump. I did my best to calm her, but I was still a stranger and my efforts were largely unsuccessful. I'm grateful the flight is over, as I walk away from the terminal, where Annie is safely in the arms of a tall blonde man.

I have only my carry-on (it is, after all, only a five-day trip,) so I bypass Baggage Claim and head for the main entrance. I relish in the comforting din of Southern accents all around me. It sounds like home, it _feels_ like home, and I'm glad to be here.

I walk out the main doors of the airport and search for the black Ford Bronco my mom's been driving for as long as I can remember.

It travels slowly down the street just as I exit, and I'm pleased with my mother's perfect timing and wave my arms in the air, flagging her down like an air-traffic controller.

She pulls over to the side of the road. I quickly throw my bag into the backseat then slide into the passenger's seat next to her.

"Hey, baby," she leans over and gives me a peck on the cheek.

"Hi, Mama," I reply, clicking my seatbelt buckle and giving her a reciprocating kiss on her cheek. "You had perfect timing."

"I've been circling for the past fifteen minutes," she laughs, and I join in.

"Sorry."

"Not your fault - I couldn't find parking for the life of me," she shrugs and pulls up to a red light. "So how are you, honey? How's school going?"

"It's been good, Mama."

"You makin' the grades?"

"Doin' the best I can."

She looks at me, smiles softly. "That's all I can ask of you." She turns right at the second stoplight and then asks, a teasing lilt in her voice, "Meet any boys?"

Yes, my mother knows of my sexuality. She is a very big part of my life; she has been since the moment I was born, but even more so when my father died when I was ten. She has raised me and my brother Luke, who is four years my senior, and she's more than my mother, she's my confidante. I can tell her anything, which may seem unusual to other teenage boys...but Mama's just...the one person I've always known I could count on.

She's a bit smothering, but she really does mean well.

I roll my eyes, but answer truthfully. "Sort of, Mama."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that...there's this boy, and..."

"And...?"

"And, honestly, Ma, I'm pretty sure I'm in love...I'm in love and he's in love...but we can't be together."

"Well, if that isn't the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard...you say you're in love?"

"We both are."

"With each other?"

"Yes."

"Then...?"

"It's a long, complicated story, Mama."

"Well, we've got ourselves five days."

* * *

We stop for take-out Chinese on the way home, because there's no way Mama's cooking the day before Thanksgiving.

"Is Luke home, too?" I ask as she pulls the car into the driveway of our modest split-level Austin home. I'm amazed by how happy I am just to see my house. I've missed it here, and the house seems to glow with warmth and safety.

"His classes aren't over until the evenings on Mondays and Wednesdays, but he should be home around ten or eleven."

I smile. I really have missed my brother, even though he's my complete opposite...not to mention sort of a pompous ass.

We put his lo mein in the fridge, and hunt for drinks at the same time. Mama has lemonade made, even though it's November, because she knows it's my favourite. I pull out the pitcher and grab two glasses from the cupboard.

My mother is setting the food out on the dining room table. I stop in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room and watch her bustling about, sorting her food from mine and setting the provided plastic silverware next to the cartons. Plates right now would be a hassle, but Mama sets everything up as if we were eating a fancy meal.

After we've eaten and are really only picking at the leftovers, she levels me with a stare.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, not really. Want some of my sweet and sour chicken?" It's an awkward, obvious subject change, and my mother is not the type to let subjects drop.

While we were growing up, she always felt it necessary and important that Luke and I know she was here for us, that she would _always_ be here for us. She always wanted us to talk to her, to let her know about problems and issues.

At age ten, when your father dies in a car accident and it's a huge shock to your system, when you're not sure how to function, how to act, where to turn...it's nice to know your mother's there, smiling through her tears and wiping away yours and waiting to just listen.

At age eleven, when you watch your much-idolized, fifteen-year-old brother leave for days at a time, refuse to talk to you or your mother...when you watch a wonderful, smart human being virtually self-destruct, smoke and drink and shout hate-filled rants around the house...when you know he's really slowly suffering inside, just like you are, and that he's dealing with it the only way he can...when you see how hurt your mother gets...it's nice to know she'll still be patient and smile through those tears and let you crawl into her lap and listen to you and love you. And to watch her do it for Luke when, nine months later, he broke down and came to his senses all at the same time.

And, at age thirteen, when you're sent to California all by yourself, away from this strong support system, when you know something's missing and you're only starting to realize you just might know what it is. And when it finally solidifies, and it's concrete in your mind and you're so young, really, and coming to terms with your homosexuality...it's nice to know that your mother waits for your class every night..and when you're finally home and you decide to tell her and you're both smiling and crying...it's nice to know your mother has an open mind and will listen.

"So there's this boy..." she prompts me, bringing me back into the present.

I sigh. I'm not worming my way out of this one. This is where Mama seems smothering. I know I can talk to her, I like talking to her...but sometimes, I just really don't wanna say anything.

"It's Adam." Apparently, this is not one of those times. Or I'm just not in the mood for putting up a fight.

"Adam, the sweet boy whom I met at the final Goodwill Game?" she asks. All our parents had been given tickets to come see the game against Iceland. Luke had even taken time off from his summer job to watch me play.

I nod. "The one and same."

"With the wrist?"

"Yes, Mama."

"He's _cute_!"

"Ma!" I groan. She _always_ does this. I think she thinks it's "supportive." It's _embarrassing_ is what it is. I most certainly do not want to discuss the attractiveness levels of anyone with my mother, especially not Adam.

"I'm sorry," she holds her hands up. "I was only commenting."

Then she fixes me with another pointed look until I buckle once more under the scrutiny and tell her everything that I can remember, from beginning to end, from Goodwill Games to yesterday.

"I know you're not going to like this," Mama says after a few moments contemplation. I had been worrying through the silence that her sentence would begin with this, "but I think Adam may have the right idea here."

I slump in my chair, defeated. My own _mother_ isn't even on my side.

"Listen, Dwayne." She pats my knee. "I don't mean that you and Adam should be apart – maybe you two could have a wonderful relationship together. But right now...you can't _start_a relationship based on false pretenses."

"I don't _have_ any fal–"

"Baby, you do. Humans aren't perfect. It's part of what makes us unique and wonderful. I'm not sure why Adam has earned such a high place in your eyes, but you can't put people on pedestals, Dwayne. They'll _always_fall down. Always."

I nod softly, focusing on pushing the last few grains of rice around the bottom of the container. What she says makes sense. Why does Adam have such a high place in my eyes? Because he's perfect – but how do I know he's perfect? Because...because he is. I don't know if I could ever explain it to someone else – I don't even know where I'd start, how I'd try – it's just something I know. It's like...everything he touches turns to gold, everything he does is right. He's got the looks, he's got the hockey talent, he's got the intelligence and the grades to prove it. He's got the sense of humour and the perfectly-made bed. Everything people strive for is embodied in Adam. He just _has_ it; it comes naturally. And if...if Adam touched me, if Adam chose me, maybe I'd be golden, maybe I'd be right. Maybe I just want Adam to be a part of my life to make me feel whole, to make me feel a little bit of perfect.

Mama, thankfully, is content with letting me silently contemplate. I think she thinks she's getting through to me. Maybe she is. Sometimes I don't even know what I think anymore.

The door opens and slams.

"Hello?"

I jump up at the sound of my brother's voice, eager for the distraction, equally as eager to see him. I run to the front hall, where Luke is just hanging his jacket (the winter evenings always have a slight chilly bite) on the rack.

"Luke!" I throw my arms around him.

"Dwayne!" He is taken aback by my blatant affection for a minute, before he returns my hug. "How've you been? How's school?"

"It's fine, it's good. I'm...okay." He notes my change of adjectives but has decided to let it slide for the moment. It's really easy to read my brother; I see everything in his eyes.

My brother and I get along quite well. We look a lot alike – we have the same eyes and the same nose...his jawline is a little more define, and I unfortunately, got stuck with the bigger ears. We have the same smile and identical laughs. It strikes me suddenly how much I've really missed him, and I tell him so.

"Bro! Aw!" He takes the humourous way out, as he tends to do. "I never knew you cared." He wipes away his imaginary tears and pretends to blow his nose on my shirt sleeve.

I roll my eyes. "Still the same old Luke."

"It's only been a coupla months, Dwayne – certainly not enough time for me to have grown up."

I laugh at him, and he joins in momentarily. We both walk back to the dining room, where Mama is throwing away her and my Chinese cartons.

"Lukey!" She wipes her hands on a towel and hugs him before grabbing his chin with one hand and kissing his cheek. "Your dinner's in the fridge. Sorry your brother and I didn't wait for you. He was hungry and we started to talk a little...you know how it's much easier for Dwayne to talk over food."

My mom's always blunt like that. And she always talks about people in front of them, like they're not standing right there.

And...I never realized I'm more comfortable and open with a plate in front of me and a fork in my hand. But when I think back on my life, it's actually true – a quirk I never picked up on. Maybe Adam and I should have a discussion over dinner.

That sounds just like a date, and suddenly I'm blushing, my neck burning and my ears turning crimson. I explain this sudden colour change by fanning myself and commenting on how hot it is in the kitchen. I don't think Mama or Luke bought that explanation but neither wants to ask what's on my mind...Mama probably has a pretty good idea _who_ is is, but she at least has the good sense not to mention_ that_. If I feel it's necessary to tell Luke (which I probably will – my brother is intelligent and gives good advice), I'd like to do so in my own time and on my own terms.

"Here, Dwayne." My mother holds out my fortune cookie, and I unwrap it and crack it open. I pop a triangular piece into my mouth as I smooth out the tiny slip of paper between my fingers.

_Do not worry. Who among us is perfect?_(1)

I almost laugh, but I manage to control myself. This is like a movie, this is so fitting. I tuck the slip of paper into my pocket and tell myself I'll hold onto it. The supposedly-rhetorical question still has an answer in my mind: Adam.

I yawn lengthily and announce that after a long flight and a good meal, I need my sleep. Mama and Luke let me go without much fuss, and I wonder if they'll be up late talking and worrying about me. I drop the thought as I burrow under my blankets in my old, comfortable room and drift off to sleep.

* * *

(1) No lie. I've gotten this fortune before in a cookie. Oh, and, um, hi! I know it's been awhile (to say the least) but...I want to finish this. 


	12. I can't help the way I feel

Thanksgiving is quiet and fairly uneventful, small and comfortable.

Aside from Mama and Luke, Mama's parents (Grandma and Grandpa Stevens, aka Gamma and Pa), Aunt Linda and her husband Eric, their two kids Jamie and Ryan, Uncle Michael and his wife Rowena enter our house and crowd around our dinner table every year. This year, as usual, Mama and Gamma started cooking straightaway, at nine o'clock in the morning, and it is the smell that wakes me up at eleven.

I wander downstairs after getting ready for the day and dressing up a little, in khakis and a blue button-down. Thanksgiving isn't formal but my family makes a small effort to dress up. Everyone has arrived already, and I feel a little out-of-the-loop. I don't doubt that my mother told everyone to let me sleep, that I was having a bit of a rough time, and my thoughts are confirmed when both my aunts corner me and assure me that everything will be fine, that all people in my situation – and I'm sure they mean that on many levels – go through hard times.

I thank them quietly and assure them that I'm working everything out. I hug them long and hard and thank them again, leaving them staring after me, undoubtedly wishing they could help. My family is close-knit and fiercely protective. There are only ten of us, and I'm close with every member of my extended family.

After I find and greet everyone else, I make my way to the kitchen. I'm put in charge of mashed potatoes, which has been my role since I had the arm strength to whip the potatoes smoothly. Luke takes care of the vegetables, and Mama and Gamma are completely on top of everything else.

The turkey is the last thing to be finished; everything else is left warming on the stove or in the microwave. Jamie and Ryan convince me to play a game of wiffleball outside. I distract myself with my much younger cousins, and even though sports other than hockey aren't exactly my strong point, we do have a lot of fun.

Dinner is served late afternoon, and it's delicious. We do the traditional "Tell everyone what you're thankful for," and I say my family and hockey and the opportunities I have been given. Silently, I add Adam. I'm out to my family, but I don't consider the Thanksgiving dinner table the place to explain homosexuality to two boys under ten.

The evening is spent watching football, because Michael, Eric, and Pa just don't understand the joys of hockey. They're Cowboys fans, and the Dallas Cowboys are _always_ one of the teams that plays on Thanksgiving Thursday. This year, the Cowboys are destroyed by the Pittsburgh Steelers, forty-five to thirteen. My uncles and Pa are in slightly sour mood the rest of the evening, though they cheer up to play euchre with Gamma while Mama and Rowena clean.

I sit on the loveseat in the den, my eyes closed, fighting off the tryptophan and the urge to fall asleep. I love Thanksgiving. I love my family; these ten people are some of the most wonderful, caring people I have ever met. Our holidays are not too big, not too small, and I wouldn't like them any other way.

It's been only Mama's side of the family since Dad died. One year, though, Luke and I ventured to our grandparents' – Dad's parents' – house for Thanksgiving. I was telve, and all had gone well until I was sitting in an unlit corner of the living room. My grandmother had turned on a floor lamp, illuminating half my face. She'd gasped and started crying, saying how much I looked like my dad, her son, her child. It turned into a really heart-wrenching moment, and the immense sadness had never really stopped hovering over the family when Luke and I were there. I didn't ever want to put any member of my family through that. We settle for cards at major holidays and birthdays, and sometimes even then, the words are blotchy and smudged, like someone had cried while writing the message.

I wonder, in a completely masochistic way, what Adam is doing right now, who he's talking to, what he's thinking. I wonder where he goes for dinner and how many people will be there. I wonder what his extended family is like, and, weirdly, I wonder if they would like me. I wonder if I crossed his mind at all, when he thought of who and what he is thankful for.

"Bro? What's on your mind?"

I didn't even realize Luke was in the room, let alone sitting next to me, let alone speaking to me.

"What? Nothing," I tell him distractedly.

"Dwayne, I just announced that I was moving to Mars with Halle Berry, and you asked if I needed a hand packing my stuff."

I spoke to him?

"Sorry, Luke. I guess I am a little distracted."

"A little? I think _you're_ the one on Mars."

I shrug.

"Do you wanna talk about it...about anything? Or did Mama grill you for enough information that you feel tired even _thinking_ about discussing it again?"

I start laughing. He knows our mother too well. "We did have a nice_ long_ talk."

"You need any brotherly advice, something from a young guy's perspective?"

"It's, um," I falter a bit. "It's about love, about a boy, I mean."

"Well. What's up?"

"Do you – I mean, you don't exactly know – "

"C'mon, Dwayne, it's every older brother's duty to share his studly knowledge with the younger. I figure talking to you about a boy would essentially be the same as talking to you about a girl, except, you know, pronoun change."

"I don't think it's quite that easy."

"Try me."

I give him a shortened version, hitting the high points, hitting the low points. When I finish, he's nodding as if he already knows exactly what to say.

How can everyone else make it seem so easy, so black-and-white? How do they know what I'm doing before I even do? Why do they recognize my mistakes as I'm making them, when I can't think of any other way to handle this?

I can't help the way I feel. I can't help that I think Adam's perfect. I know, on principle, that no one is. And maybe it's the definition of the word that people can be so confident about; they know that no one is completely flawless. But at the same time, they don't know Adam like I do. Maybe they're not "blinded" like I am, but that just means they don't understand where I'm coming from.

I struggle with my feelings and with my understanding of my feelings. I struggle with how I feel about Adam, how he appears to me. I only know what I think, I only know what I want and need and feel.

"Well, Dwayne," Luke finally speaks, and I still want to hear what he has to say. "I'm not sure what to tell you. It seems as though you've done all you can, at this moment in time. I think the ball's in Adam's court, unless you have some grand, new revelation about how you're feeling. He knows how you feel right now. Don't let him know anything else unless it changes. Other than that, he has to come to you...whether he's perfect or not."

This is quite different from what I expected to hear, but somehow, the advice fits Luke, the advice fits our brotherly relationship. He knows what I think and where I stand and he knows what he wants to say, and he finds some middle ground to get his point across without making me feel like I'm missing the most important piece to the puzzle.

I nod. "Thanks, Luke."

"Dwayne?" He looks questioningly at me, like he's willing to stay and talk if I need him to.

"You don't need to say anything else. I appreciate your advice; it means a lot to me."

"Are you going to follow it?"

"I'm going to try, I think. Although staying away from Adam unless he initiates the contact will be difficult."

"I understand, Bro. It's about being around that one special person, that one person who kinda makes you go a little crazy..." He drifts off a little, this weird look in his eyes that I immediately recognize.

"Speaking from experience?"

"Her name's Miranda," Luke confides. "I was thinking about bringing her to dinner, but I wanted Mama to meet her alone before I brought her to a family event."

"Miranda, huh. She's that person?"

"She makes me go a little crazy, yeah."

"I'm happy for you, Luke."

"Thanks."

He squeezes my shoulder and grabs Jamie by the waist as he tries to run by. The four-year-old squirms and laughs and shouts for his older brother. Ryan attaches himself to Luke's leg, and I watch the unusual trio head off in search of the boys' parents.

It's really unfortunate that all I want to do right now is call Adam.

This is getting ridiculous. Even _I _can see that.

* * *

"Dwayne?"

I turn at the sound of my name and smile but at the same time suppress a groan. I headed outside just as the stars were beginning to show. I wanted a quiet moment on my front lawn, a moment of reflection and calm, and I'm greeted with Daphne, my neighbor in Austin and the only girl I've ever kissed.

We were nine, it was on her back porch swing, she initiated it, it lasted about ten seconds.

I hated it even then.

"It is you! Dwayne, how are you?" She crosses from her yard into mine. She really has grown into a beautiful lady. She has pale blonde hair and a relatively dark tan from the Texan sun. Her girlish freckles have faded and her gangly limbs have grown firm and fit. Daphne is gorgeous, and it's too damn bad I don't even really care.

"Daphne!" I greet her with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

It mustn't be much, because her pretty features are formed into a frown.

"How are you?" she asks, and it's not just the general, bull question. I know she really wants to hear the dirt. But what can I tell her? 'Well, I'm not doin' so well, Daph. The boy I'm in love with admitted he has feelings for me, too, but because of four very well-thought-out reasons, we can't be together'? Don't think so. Daphne and I haven't been close since fifth grade.

"I'm okay," I reply indifferently.

The frown deepens. Daphne always _was_ damn good at reading people.

"Seriously, Dwayne." Daphne always was damn good at being pushy, too. "Do you want to talk?" She starts walking toward her own backyard then looks back to see if I will follow.

And, for some reason, I do.

I don't tell her about Adam. I tell her about school and about hockey and about how Eton is difficult and stressful and I don't know if I fit in. I tell her about a person who is everything to me and who is making me sad, although I don't go into specifics, even when she asks. She respectfully (surprisingly) backs off, but not before reminding me that anyone (and she doesn't say "girl," which I take note of) lucky enough to have me should realize their luck and never let me go, and that if that person ever hurts me, she will personally see to their demise.

Then Daphne tells me about the local high school, the boys at which are notoriously unappealing. She talks about being alone and missing me when I'm in Minnesota even though we haven't had a conversation like this for about six years. I tell her I'm sorry and promise to do better at keeping in touch.

We talk until midnight and no one has come looking for either of us. When it's over, I find myself wishing Daphne would stay. She has to go back inside, though; she thanks me for distracting her from her gigantic family. Her cousins are just now starting to leave and she has to go say goodbye.

She leans down to me, where I'm sitting on her back porch swing and kisses me like she did when we were nine. It's quick, and this time it doesn't mean anything to either of us. I still hate it, but wrap her in a quick hug.

"I wish we were ten again, Daph," I tell her. "I wish we were ten and best friends and that everything was simple like it was then."

"Things can be simple again, Dwayne. Just figure out what really matters and forget about everything else."

I want to tell her it's not that easy. I want to tell her that I _have_ figured out what really matters, and that what-really-matters doesn't want to be with me. I want to tell her that when I was ten I didn't have to worry about feelings and boys and love. I want to tell her that I do as best I can at school and balance as much as I can with hockey and spend time with people I _do_ think I fit in with. I want to tell her that I've tried to simplify everything in my life and that I've failed.

But I just hug her again and watch her walk in through the sliding door into her dining room. I watch her greet her mother, who looks exactly like her only twenty-five years older, and point out to me. I wave quickly in greeting when her mother looks to see exactly who her daughter has just spent the last two hours of Thanksgiving with. Her mom smiles at me, and I nod before stepping off her porch into the soft grass and crossing over to my own backyard.

I slip back inside, and everyone's gathered playing the game Balderdash and I sit in on the next few rounds and think about how much more fun this game was when I was ten.


	13. I wrote about solitude and loneliness

Mama walks me as far as airport security allows her, and we have a quiet goodbye, or heads leaning together, our foreheads resting against one another. The Friday and Saturday after Thanksgiving were spent around the house, reading and working on the homework that some of the meaner teachers assigned just before break. Mama and I didn't really talk much more about Adam, and I preferred it that way. However, I didn't manage to distract myself well enough; I thought about him a lot and missed him even more. I'm happy to get back to school, although I'm worried he'll make good on his threat to move out.

"I'll miss you, Dwayne," Mama is saying.

"Less than a month 'til Christmas, Mama."

"I know, but the house is so empty without you and Luke – and so quiet."

"I'd think you'd enjoy that," I tease her gently, smiling.

"Oh, it's nice sometimes, but I was so use to the hustle and bustle for so many years, it's still hard being alone."

I wrap my arms around my mother's smaller frame and rest my head on top of hers.

"I'm sorry, Mama. I miss you, too."

"I know you do, sweetie, but I know you're better off getting a good education and paying hockey with all your friends." She pulls away and kisses my cheek then rubs away the lipstick mark with her thumb. "Be happy, baby."

"I'll try." It's all I can offer her. "Bye, Mama."

"Bye, Dwayne."

I walk forward a few steps, then turn to see her waving. I return in kind, then don't look back again as I head to the gates for departing flights.

The flight back to Minnesota is much less eventful than the one down to Texas. I nap for nearly two hours and finish up some science questions – the last shred of homework I have – the rest of the time.

I take a cab back to Eden Hall and find the campus nearly deserted; the residence halls only reopened an hour ago, and I'm one of the first students to return.

I let myself into the building and climb three flights of steps to my room. I enter; Adam hasn't returned yet. Or maybe he has, and is simply opting to stay in another room, like he warned he might. Ugh. How depressing. My four-and-a-half days home – especially after the "Do you want to talk about it?" first day – may not have been a distraction, but they had been enough of an escape from emotion, an escape from the first-hand experience of the whirlwind I'd been through just before. It feels like so long ago, but one glance at my familiar four walls, and I'm thrown right back in the thick of it. Immediately, I remember once again: I'm in love, and I'm so incredibly lonely.

I pick up the phone and punch in a four-digit number.

"Hello?" a voice answers on the third ring.

"Hey, Charlie. It's Dwayne."

"Oh – hey." He sounds sort of hesitant, nervous almost. "What's up?"

"I was, uh...I was just wondering..." I stumble over my words. "I was just wondering if Adam was there, if he, uh, plans to stay there for...awhile..."

"Uh, yeah. He's here. He told me he'd be staying for at least a week, maybe longer."

"Oh."

There's an awkward pause, and I wonder what Adam has told Charlie and Guy, I wonder what excuse he gave them, and then I wonder if it was the truth. That thought is literally breathtaking, it's something I never considered.

"What's...what's going on, Dwayne?" he asks suddenly. "Adam just said you guys were fighting, but he wouldn't say why or what started it."

"We just...I'm just going through a difficult time, and Adam called me on it, and we just got into an argument. I, uh, I don't know if it'll blow over any time soon, we said some pretty intense stuff."

There's another pause, and I'm guessing Charlie doesn't quite know what to say.

"Even though Adam's here, I'm not...talking sides, I won't, and if you ever need to talk about anything," he says quietly, "you know I"m here for you – as your Captain and as your friend."

"Thanks, Charlie. I'm pretty talked-out at the moment, but I'll keep that in mind."

"All right. Well...talk to you later, then?"

"Yeah...Charlie?" I say impulsively, and for a moment I want him to tell Adam that he should come back, that I miss him, that we need to talk.

"Yeah?"

But I remember Luke's advice and realize I probably shouldn't have picked up the phone in the first place, and I bite my tongue.

"Nothing, never mind."

"Okay. Bye, Dwayne."

I hang up and flop back onto my bed I look to my left, at Adam's pristinely-made bed, with the pillow perfectly fluffed and a corner neatly folded down. Adam probably makes his bed with hospital corners. For some reason, this strikes me as funny. I start chuckling, but soon it builds in intensity, until I am laughing so hard, I'm gasping for breath and clutching my sides in pain

If he were here, Adam would probably ask what was so funny, and would start laughing himself, even before I had a chance to answer.

The laughter keeps coming, and I grip my stomach harder, dig my fingertips into my flesh. It hurts. I miss Adam so much. It hurts.

If only I'd stayed quiet, kept my secret to myself. He would be here, and I would be happy. No, I wouldn't be. I would be _outwardly_ happy. I'd have internal turmoil, but I'd keep up my carefree exterior. I'd stay in the closet and hide my feelings. It wouldn't be so hard – I'd done it for so long...so long, so many years, up until last week – until too many questions and an impulsive moment. I could have handled it for longer.

But it was too late for wishes, too late for "If only"s...it was impossible to change the past, deeply as though I may hope.

But, really _if only_...just once, if one thing could be changed...but that's not true. I'd save Dad first. Somehow, Adam and my father, two of the three most significant males in my life (the third, of course, being Luke), are forever linked in my mind. They are tied to the happiest moments in my life, and to the most devastating. I love them both and my heart aches for them both.

I can't lose Adam like I lost Dad. I actually have a choice this time, a chance, the ability to keep him in my life if I so wish. If I could just tell him what he wanted to hear...but I can't lie. I've always been rather bad at it, especially when it's about something as important as this.

Incredibly, I hear Dad's voice in my head now. _"Things will pan out son," _that's what he always said to me, when I was so young and disappointed about the little things in life that seemedimportant at the time. _"Things will pan out in the long run."_

I miss my father more than ever. And I hope he's watching me now, giving me a little nudge in the right direction, helping to make sure that things do pan out.

* * *

I manage to avoid Adam for two weeks, save hockey practice. Even then, we don't speak to each other at all. Orion notices, I'm sure, but he doesn't say anything. The other Ducks already know we're fighting and since Adam and I refuse to explain, there's nothing much they can do, though Lord knows they're all probably itching to help.

Christmas break is looming on the horizon, a three full school-free weeks, so the teachers are piling on the assignments, and I keep my lonely nights occupied with homework. Sometimes Connie visits me, but I'm usually not up to talking, and she gets bored with her own voice kind of quickly. I always make sure to thank her for her efforts, and I really do appreciate her friendship. I just can't muster up the strength or energy to interact with anyone. I'm quieter in class, and I eat lunch by myself in the library. I call Mama nearly every evening, to hear her voice, though I never want to talk about Adam.

The days move along sluggishly, and soon they all start to blend, melting into one another so that I can't remember how long it's been and only a glance at my page-a-day calendar each morning tells me what day of the week it is.

Then, one Saturday morning, Adam walks into the room, completely unexpected, completely unannounced. I'm at my desk, working on an essay about _Grapes of Wrath_ that's due for English next Friday. The only bright spot in Adam's disappearance is the fact that with my alone time, with the fresh focus on schoolwork, I can concentrate more on doing well in at least that aspect of my life. It's only been a couple weeks, but four of my teachers have already commended me for my improvement.

I'd had to write an essay about _Catcher in the Rye_just after Thanksgiving break, and I wrote about solitude and loneliness, about how Holden Caulfield was just a spurned boy in love. I'd gotten the essay back with the comments _"A little off-topic and lengthy with the personal relevance, but a riveting read nonetheless." _I'd gotten an A-minus, the highest mark I'd ever received in Ms. Lyon's English class.

But Adam's just walked in, and he did it so naturally that for a moment I don't even notice.

"...and Rosasharn..." I mumble as I write, then realize with a start that Adam hasn't been in the room for _days_ and yet...here he is. "Adam?"

"I, uh," he looks like a deer caught in headlights. "I was hoping you wouldn't be here."

I sag a bit, the air whooshing out of my lungs like out of a balloon. I have a sharp weight crushing my chest, and I croak out a feeble, "Oh."

"I just...I needed to get some more clothes." He rifles through the top drawer of his dresser, which holds neatly-folded t-shirts and polo shirts. He selects a few, then grabs a pair of khakis and a pair of corduroys from the middle drawer. He finds pajama pants from the bottom and a couple of sweaters from the closet. The pile in his arm grows as the silence between us lengthens. He adds a belt to the top then heads for the door.

I hold my pen in my hand, but "Rosasharn" is still the last word I've written. I am watching Adam out of the corner of my eye.

HE balances everything on his left arm and reaches for the doorknob with his right.

"Stay," I say before I can stop myself.

Adam freezes, arm still outstretched. He doesn't turn, doesn't say anything.

"Please."

He still doesn't answer.

"Don't go. Stay in the room. Don't leave. Stay with me. Please. How many _times_, how many _ways_ do I have to say it?"

Still nothing.

"I haven't spoken to you for over two weeks. _Two weeks_, Adam, that's so long, and we were so close before...before you knew, before I knew...and I can't talk to you, because my feelings haven't changed, and I told Luke I'd wait for you, I wouldn't say anything to you unless my feelings changed...but I don't know how they will, I don't know if they can. And I just want you to be around, because I'm miserable when I'm alone. And all the good grades in the world won't make up for the fact that I'm so lonely. I just want you to – "

"I'll stay, Dwayne," Adam interrupts suddenly, "if you can give me one good reason to."

"I love you."

"That's not a reason to stay. That's something you think you feel."

"Christ, Adam - if you're going to turn me down, at least realize it truly _is_ how I feel. I love you, and I would do anything for you to stay. Please understand – "

"Dwayne." He says softly, almost a sign. "I wish I could."

"And you _can_. I'm so sick of having this argument."

"_You're_ sick of it? How do you think I feel? We just have the same argument over and over – you're not coming to me with anything new."

"Because there is nothing new! Because nothing has changed! And nothing will change. I love you."

"You think I'm perfect."

"I do. Because, _to me_, you are."

"And until that changes, then you're going to have to listen to your brother and let me make the next move."

His next move is out the door.

I throw my pen at his retreating back in anger, and it hits the door as it closes with a click. I push my essay off the desk and rest my head in my hands.

What the hell is wrong with me?


	14. I just questioned Adam's perfection

Another few days pass by, and in Minnesota it starts to snow heavily, every day. School is never canceled, so every morning, I drag myself to hockey practice and then to classes, blinking blearily against the bright white snow and dreary grey sky.

My marks are still improving, because I don't leave my bedroom except for the required hockey and class. At four each afternoon, I lock the door to my room and know no one will disturb me, because the only other person with a key doesn't want to live here with me anymore.

Connie's stopped visiting, because I've stopped answering her knocks. When she looks at me, I can see the sadness and fright in her eyes, so I stop looking for it and stare at the ground when I walk. I still eat lunch alone in the library, and I still do schoolwork for at least six hours a day, late into the evening; it's become busy work, most of it – recopying my notes even when they don't need to be recopied, revising essays four or five times.

There's nothing else I can think to do. My play on the ice has become sloppy, and handling a puck no longer brings the same joy. Adam doesn't pass me the puck anymore, and Adam doesn't speak my name, not even to tell me a play or cheer when I happen to accidentally do something well, and Adam doesn't even look at me, won't even glance my way.

I can't even call Mama anymore, because I can't think of anything I want to say.

I know I'm handling everything completely unhealthily, but I can hardly muster the strength to do anything anymore. I know it's getting to the point where everyone wants to say something to me, wants to find a way to help, is thinking that it will soon be too late...but no one does say anything, and I know I would push them away if they tried.

Luke calls me every night, on Mama's request, probably. Sunday to Sunday, at nine o'clock sharp, my telephone rings, and I answer; I don't know why, but I can't ignore him. Luke always wants to talk about professional hockey teams or his classes or my classes or the latest movie he saw or this hilarious conversation he overheard while grocery shopping. He never brings up Adam, and of course, neither do I.

One Thursday night, though, he cuts right to the chase and says what has probably been on his mind since Thanksgiving.

At nine o'clock sharp, I pick up the telephone. "Hello?" My voice is dulled and pained, all at the same time.

Luke sighs. "I'm sick of this _perfect_ bullshit, Dwayne. You're not perfect; Adam isn't perfect. How is it that he realizes that about you, while you can't realize that about him?" I don't answer him, but he plows ahead anyway. "Isn't there anything about Adam you hate? Isn't there anything about him that pisses you off, that drives you up a wall?"

"Of course there is."

I actually have the gall to be shocked at my own immediate answer.

"And you don't think irritating habits are imperfections?"

"No. They're just...they're part of who he is. They're part of the perfect whole."

"Dwayne...what do you hate?"

"I...I kind of hate the way he wears the collar of his polo shirts popped up." It's the first thing that pops into my head, and I realize with startling clarity that it's the truth. I hate it; it's pretentious and prissy and obnoxious.

"Interesting. Not quite exactly what I was going for, but I think it's a start."

"What were you going for?"

"Well...see, Miranda has this laugh. It's kinda cute on her, but I think I only say that because I'm in love with her. She actually...you've never met her, I know, but...she's so little, like, five-foot-two, with curly blonde hair and brown eyes. And she's so small and cute, but...her laugh. It just doesn't fit, it's so...ugly. She kind of laughs like a horse."

"A horse?"

"Yeah, you know..." And he demonstrates as best he can. I pull the phone away from my ear and laugh hysterically for a minute or two – and lately, it's been a completely foreign sound, I've almost missed it, the ability to laugh and feel mirth – before composing myself.

"That's horrible," I say, when I can.

"I know it is. I know. I think if I laughed like that, I would actually physically try to change my laugh. You know, how some people change their handwriting or their annoying mannerisms? I think I would forcibly adjust the way I laughed. But Miranda...doesn't. I think she's oblivious. It's one of the annoying things about her...one of those little imperfections that makes her human. I love her anyway."

I understand where he's coming from, and I understand why popped collars don't quite fit the bill.

"Well..." I stop and think again. I kind of hate Adam's polo shirts in general. And I hate the way he can wear peach and think it's normal. These are so trivial, I almost want to laugh at myself.

But...wouldn't the perfect person know peach looks absolutely ridiculous and that polo shirts aren't exactly the most becoming style?

Of course, not. Adam is still the embodiment of what's perfect; he's still what everyone wants to be, these perfect qualities, all rolled up in one human being.

But I pause for a second here, my train of thought suddenly derailed. I just, for the first time in so many years, _questioned _Adam's perfection.

Before I can ponder that for too long, a fresh thought enters my mind: I hate the way Adam gestures wildly when he talks about his latest hockey play.

From there, the ball just doesn't stop rolling...I hate the way Adam's closet is messy but that he can pretend to the world that he's neat and tidy. I hate the way he writes his sevens. I hate the way his bed has hospital corners and that he likes to sleep in a freezing-cold room. I hate the way he's so cheap and bargain-hungry. I hate the way he eats pretzels with honey mustard and the way he scratches his wrists whenever he's nervous. I hate the way he talks while he's brushing his teeth and drools toothpaste onto his chin. I hate the way he does exactly seventeen push-ups in the morning right after he gets out of bed and the way he always ends practice by skating half a lap backwards then slamming the ice with his stick.

Adam has these little habits that drive me crazy, and I always considered them part of his charm. They still are, really, and these revelations don't make me hate _him_, or even love him any less.

Because there are always the things I love about him, too. I love the way he can solve a math problem that takes a page and a half and he considers it nothing. I love the way he squints his eyes and scrunches his nose when he's trying to remember something that's just at the edges of his consciousness. I love the way his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth when he's concentrating. I love his corduroys and the way he smooths imaginary wrinkles out of his pants.

I love the way he'll turn on the heater because he knows I like to sleep in warm rooms, and I love the way he'll stop everything to explain something to me. I love the way he moves on the ice, how he glides so effortlessly. I love the way he can tell a completely stupid joke and then laugh at himself, even when no one else is. I love the way he eats Tic Tacs in threes and will only eat a sandwich that's cut diagonally. I love the way he sighs in his sleep and the way he murmurs sometimes but will deny it if you ever point it out.

I love the way he says my name, and the way he looks at me, and the way he pretends that he's not looking at me. I love the way he's never said he doesn't love me back.

And I love the way that he wouldn't start anything before we were on the same page, before we were on a level playing field.

I love the way he only said no...because he thought that was best for me.

"Dwayne!" Luke's voice finally registers, and I realize he must have been shouting for the past five minutes. "Are you still there?"

"Yes, yes. I'm sorry."

"I'm guessing you started to think about what I was saying?"

"Yeah...yeah, definitely."

Because everything I hate...they're just mars on his personality, little – well, yes – little imperfections that I always overlooked or dismissed or considered 'perfect-in-their-own-way,' in my quest to keep Adam in his exalted position. I emphasized the positive, the things I loved, to the point where I convinced myself that the negative didn't matter.

The negative _still_ doesn't matter, at least not to the point of making me fall out of love...but these hated things matter, because they're still small parts of who Adam is, still parts of this boy that I want to be with.

I think I thought of Adam as perfect for so long that I didn't understand how to treat him any differently. First impressions mean a lot to me, and I had myself convinced that I had just met the perfect boy when I was thirteen. And nothing could make me change my mind.

He was so different from me, and I was so wrong, so imperfect, that he could only be my so right and so perfect, my opposite. He was intelligent, whereas I struggled to maintain a decent GPA. He was proper and polished while I was naive and down-home. He was a rich boy while I was a good-ole-boy. He was cool and sophisticated, and he _belonged_ no matter where he went, and I was the goofy one that looked out-of-place everywhere.

And once he found out where I was coming from...I had kind of already taken my stand. I wanted to be with this perfect person, because I was so miserable, so messed-up, and he was so different that he had to be the thing that could save me.

I didn't know how to convince myself otherwise, and he couldn't convince me, either. Not for the longest time.

Adam is still intelligent and proper and rich. He may be my opposite in so many ways, and he may have been happy when I was sad. But we're also very similar. We're young and generally full of life,and we love hockey and stupid jokes and late-night talks. We hold the same basic values and the same understanding of the world. We're both gay and we understand the idea of hardship, though on different levels for the both of us.

He's still my opposite, but he's also my match.

He is still the thing that is saving me.

And I still want to be with this imperfect person.

Because these little bits of imperfection still add up to one whole, amazing person...one whole, amazing person who _is_ perfect, to me, for me...forever.


	15. I wish I had this all scripted

The next few days are colder still somehow, snow piling up in drifts against buildings, windows freezing shut and pipes freezing useless, school miraculously remaining in session.

Two days after my conversation with Luke, I approach Connie in the hallway before lunch. She looks startled but happy, tucking her hair behind her ear and looking at me expectantly.

"Con," I say, knowing that if I had my hat, I'd be twirling it sheepishly in my hands. "I'm really sorry for shutting you out lately. That was…well, it wasn't real nice of me, especially since you were there for me when I needed you. So, uh…" I don't really know how to finish my apology.

Connie doesn't let it bother her. She grabs my hands then releases them to throw her arms around me. Her hug is startling and warm and tight, and I return it fiercely, glad that she's making this so painless. I've been worrying that I'd alienated everyone permanently, that I'd ruined everything.

"You scared me, Dwayne," she says, her voice muffled into my shoulder and thick with open emotion. "I was so worried about you. I wanted to help, but I didn't know what I could do or say, and you --"

"I wouldn't have listened anyway, Connie; I was being completely irrational. I didn't want to talk to anyone or do anything. I was so sad and angry that Adam didn't want to be around me anymore…oh, but mostly I was scared. I was scared that losing Adam was only the beginning, that I'd just knocked out the first block and everything else was going to come tumbling down next. And it was something I couldn't stop, something I couldn't control. I couldn't' help how I felt, though I thought I could have -- thought I should have -- kept it to myself. But now…Connie, I have done so much thinking in the past couple days, and maybe it's all for the best."

Connie has long since pulled back, but she's still holding my forearms, staring up at me, her eyes sparkling prettily. She laughs suddenly, and, confused, I look at her and stop talking.

"Oh, Dwayne, I'm sorry, but I'm so happy, I can't hold it in. You scared me all this time, but if you needed it to come to some conclusions, then it _is_ all for the best, and I never thought I'd hear those words come out of your mouth, but I'm glad they did."

"Connie," and I'm frantic suddenly, panic settling in my chest, "I've got to talk to Adam, where is he? I have so many things to tell him, and I can't be too late --"

"Too late? What are you talking about?"

"Adam…" I trail off, because although the hallway seems empty, I'm still worried about everything I'm about to say and, too late, about the implications of what I've already said. I lean down toward her, not _really_ caring, but lowering my voice conspiratorially anyway. "Adam loved me, too…_loves_, hopefully, if I'm not too late…he loves me more strongly than I ever thought possible, he just showed it in his own way, and I didn't get it. But I do now. I understand so many things now. And I need to talk to Adam…"

"Dwayne, I'm sure you can talk to Adam any time you want to; he'll listen, especially if he loves you as much as you say he does -- and how do you _know_?"

"He wouldn't be with me."

Connie raises her eyebrows.

"No, really -- it makes sense. He cared for me too much to hurt me. And I probably _would_ have gotten hurt; it would have been an impossible relationship, with my expectations. He told me he was attracted to me, he said when I…" and I trail off again, suddenly paranoid. Connie nods briefly; she knows what I'm talking about. "But I know it goes much deeper than that, if he didn't let that attraction make his decision, if he wouldn't start something frivolous. If he just had surface feelings, what was to stop him from having a little fun?"

Connie cringes at the mental images I'm sure I just gave her, but she's still smiling. "Well, firstly, there are many reasons: the fact you're roommates and teammates, and the fact that Adam just isn't that type of guy."

I shoot her a look, and she smiles wider before apologizing for shooting down my first "proof."

"I know, I know all that, but…I can just tell, Connie. I know he cares about me, he loves me, and I should have always known. He's never really hid it, I just didn't know what I was seeing. He loves me, and he wanted to wait for me to be ready to enter a real relationship, without blinders and without expectations."

"And that's now?"

"I think it's now."

"Then you've gotta talk to him. I think," Connie begins, pursing her lips for a moment before continuing, "that Adam had to stay away from you because he couldn't control himself around you." My ears blush bright red, and she shakes her head. "I _mean_…he'd controlled himself for so long, he'd managed to keep his feeling in check -- you could see them if you were looking, but most people -- including you -- didn't. But now that you revealed yourself, now that he knew how _you_ really felt…he needed to stay away. He needed you to understand why you guys couldn't be together, and he needed you to realize alone what you needed to realize for anything to happen, for anything to _work_. So he couldn't be around you, because he'd want to _force_ you to realize, he'd want to teach you about real relationships. And for anything to be real and long-term, you had to learn that on your own."

I stare at her.

"I was worried about you, Dwayne. I analyze when I'm worried."

"No…no, you make a lot of sense." I like the thought of what she says, and I think it might be true. "And I think that makes me love him more."

Connie rolls her eyes at me. "You're such a girl sometimes."

I laugh, and she looks so happy to hear me laugh. "Is he in the lunchroom now?"

"You're going to do this at lunch?"

"No," I immediately reply, although I kind of want to, because lunch is now. A thought strikes suddenly. "I don't know if he'll listen to me, Con."

"Sure he will. He really does care about you, and he'll listen to you."

"No, I mean…the ball is in his court. He came into the room the other day, and I…I don't even remember what I said, just more of the same stuff, the same broken record. And he told me that I should stay away, that I should back off and let him make the next move."

"Even when things are so clearly different?"

"He did say that when things change…"

"So, Dwayne -- "

"I don't know if he'll stay in the room long enough to learn that things have changed."

"Then I'll help you." Connie smiles, sly and mischievous. She's our biggest cheerleader, and I know she'll come up with something. She probably already has. "It's simple, yet effective. How about tomorrow night?"

* * *

Adam walks into the locker room, hair lit honey-blonde and looking soft. He refuses to meet my eyes as he perches on the end of the bench opposite me.

"Hey, Adam," I say, unable to hide the bit of hope that underlies my words.

He looks over and smiles, ever so slightly. He stands, though, and starts moving toward the door. "I, um," he coughs a little," if Connie gets here, tell her I'll meet her back in Charlie and Guy's room." A small part of me notes that he didn't say "_my_ room," and that small part is ridiculously happy about that.

"Connie…Connie's not meeting you here."

He stops and turns to me. "Oh, did she come by and say -- ?"

"No, she's not -- I want to talk to you."

He narrows his eyes. "What, this is a set-up?" He shakes his head and continues moving toward the door.

"I was afraid you wouldn't talk to me if I approached you."

"I told you to let me make the next move, Dwayne. Why take matters into your own hands again? I can't hear the same things over and over. I wears on me; I just can't listen to it again."

Adam reaches for the door handle.

"No, wait!"

He doesn't stop.

"Adam." I'm across the room in an instant, holding my hand against the door so he can't open it.

"Listen to me." I take a deep breath and wish I had this all scripted in my mind. I know exactly what I want to say, I'm just not quite sure how to say it.

Adam has stepped away from the door and his gaze has softened. He's only ever a pushover with me, and it's kind of nice to know I have that effect on him.

"Adam, I know these past few weeks have been rough and awkward, and I'm truly sorry if you've felt sad or angry or disappointed, because it's my fault. I've made some mistakes and have had a poor perception of you and of…the situation. But, Adam…I hate your polo shirts."

He stares at me, "_What_?"


	16. I don't think I'll ever move on

That was absolutely the last thing I would have liked to hear coming out of my mouth. But it actually has Adam's interest piqued -- if only because he thinks I've gone crazy -- and it will take me to the point I need to make, so I figure I'd better run with it.

"Your polo shirts. I hate them. I hate the way you pop the collar. And I especially hate the peach one. I hate that you wear peach at all."

He tilts his head and opens his mouth, as if he's about to speak, but thinks better of it. He doesn't move, though, and I am further emboldened.

"I hate the way you gesture when you talk about your latest hockey play; I'm always afraid to get close to you, for fear you'll hit me in the nose…again," I can't resist adding, almost as if to slightly reassure him that I'm not going to go off on an angry rant. A smile flickers across his lips -- for just an instant, but I catch it.

"I hate the way your closet is a complete and total mess but everyone thinks you're clean and neat because the disaster is confined to that unseen, three-by-five space." Adam has to suppress another smile, and I don't know if it's because he finds this particular flaw amusing or because he has an idea of where I'm going with this.

"I hate the way you write your sevens. I hate the way you make your bed with hospital corners, and I hate the way you like to sleep in a room as cold as the Arctic."

Adam chooses to speak now. "If this is some kind of…justification for yourself, a way to make it easier to move on -- "

"Oh, Adam, I don't think I'm ever going to move on from you. But that's okay, because I don't think I'll ever want to."

A smile -- pleased, bashful -- lights his face again, and the sheer sentiment behind it almost makes me blush. He continues, "Then what is this, Dwayne? What are you doing?"

I'm not finished with what I have to say, and I don't want to explain myself, I don't want to break everything down, at least not yet. I'd thought Adam was catching on, I'd thought he understood. Maybe he does, but he's too afraid to believe it. Maybe he doesn't want to be disappointed by me again. This time, I won't let him be.

"I hate the way you're so cheap and you comparison-shop like my mother. I hate the way you eat pretzels with honey mustard. I hate the way you scratch your wrists when you're nervous." Adam's hands clench into fists at his sides, and I realize that he was doing that exact action just now. Adam's nervous, he's anxious, and I feel a fluttery thrill in my stomach at the realization.

"I hate when you talk to me while you're brushing your teeth and you let the toothpaste drool onto your chin. I hate the way you do seventeen push-ups before anything else in the mornings and the way you end every practice by skating half a lap -- just _half_ -- backwards, then slamming the ice with your stick. I hate the way you like cats better than dogs…and the way you keep the remote control in your pillowcase. I hate the way you conjugate Spanish verbs when you're trying to make yourself fall asleep. I hate the way your favourite candies are those old-lady strawberry things, and the way you eat hamburgers without the bun. I hate your collection of rubber bands and the fact that you won't just put them all together into a rubber band ball. I hate the way you can recite passages from _Lord of the Rings_ to entertain yourself." I take a deep breath, sort of shuddery and spent.

Adam's quiet…so quiet I can hear my heart thudding against my chest. He's staring at the ground, and I'm staring at the top of his head. There are no words, there is no movement, for a good three minutes. It's as if a spell has fallen over us, making the atmosphere thick and heavy, making time slow. Both of us know that Adam has to be the next one to speak.

He finally does, his voice ringing out suddenly, clear and loud -- more maybe it just seems that way, maybe he's whispering but I'm so tuned into him, so _aware_, that I still hear every word perfectly.

"I hate the way you don't think you're as smart as you really are." He pauses and looks up to meet my eyes. His statement is powerful -- much more meaningful than my trivial objections to Adam's candy, hospital corners, push-ups, and conjugation.

"I hate the way you think you have to be perfect, because no one is, you know." There's another pause, but I know to stay quiet.

"I hate that you never realized how much I wanted to help you, so you were always afraid to ask." He's right.

"I hate the way you didn't realize that there's so much about you -- just you, just the way you are now -- that's wonderful and amazing and…loveable." He scratches his wrists when he emphasizes "loveable" with a significant glance, his eyes like melted sapphires, soft and glittery.

"I hate that you didn't know just how much _I_ loved you -- how much I _love_ you." He clenches his hands into fists again. "I hate that I was too much of a coward to tell you flat-out, and I hate that _you_ couldn't tell _me_." Oh, how things could have been so different. But I don't know whether it would be a good different or a bad different. Would we be happy together? Possibly. But would it all be a farce, a "perfect" lie waiting to be exposed? Probably. I don't really know, and maybe that's why this messed-up route we took will end up being the best.

"I hate that you thought I was perfect, because I know there are so many things about me that aren't and I know that none of it truly matters on the long run. I hate that you thought that it truly did." He shakes his head, like he's clearing his mind, like he's clearing the air. "I hate the way you don't realize how sexy your accent is." He can't hid this grin, and doesn't bother trying, even letting it widen when he sees the bright red blush that's burning my ears and cheeks. "I hate the way you own the same pair of cowboy boots, in two different colours." He's lightening the mood considerably, but we're not moving past what he _really_ wants me to know, not permanently; we'll come back to the heart of this conversation eventually. "I hate the fact that you sleep in a room as hot as the Sahara at noon. I hate that you steal the sports section from the newspaper I get from the student lounge before I get the chance to read it and fill in as much of the crossword as you can, too! I hate that you count sheep when you can't sleep. I hate that you roll out of bed five minutes before practice and don't mind that your hair is sticking up. I hate that your sheets don't match your pillowcases and that you eat ketchup on practically everything. But, Dwayne," he pauses, but only for a moment, "I love _you_."

I close my eyes, because those words are coming from the lips -- coming from the heart -- of Adam, the one I've most wanted to hear them from. I feel unsteady, and I need to hold on to something before I fall. I step forward and wrap my arms around Adam.

He returns the hug firmly and warmly, resting his head on top of mine; my face is buried in the crook of his neck.

"I'm sorry," I whisper into his skin. "I'm so, so sorry."

He rests his palms flat on my back and splays his fingers to pull me even closer to him.

"Don't apologize, Dwayne. Don't apologize; I understand."

"Do you? Adam, I…I always thought that I was imperfect and that there was a way to…a way to fix that, to fix _me_. And I met you, and you were so different from me, and you were everything I wanted to be…and everything I _wanted_, only I'd never realized it before. So you had to be it; you just _had to_."

"Dwayne…" His voice is slightly confused, mostly warning. I'm treading the same waters I've tread in all our past similar conversations.

"I'm not gonna lie to you. The realization that that can't possibly be true is still a new one. For over three years, I had the notion that you were perfect and I wasn't, that we were opposites who were meant to match. I took that stand when I was thirteen, and I thought of you as perfect for so long that it was impossible to see you any differently."

"Oh, Dwayne…" Adam pushes my hair off my forehead, and it's a quiet, tender move. It makes my stomach clench and my heart leap.

"You couldn't have done anything to convince me you weren't perfect. I overlooked, or I dismissed, everything I hated, because they didn't fit. They were _perfect_ in their own way, and you maintained your exalted position. And it didn't help matters when I fell in love with you." Adam blushes and looks away. I wait until he ventures to meet my eyes again. "By then, I was so far gone that there was no going back. And it was never going to matter anyway, whether you were perfect or not, because I was sure you'd never look at me the way I looked at you, sure you'd never return my feelings. I was free to keep you on your pedestal, free to keep you perfect, because there was no way I'd ever find out otherwise."

Adam's listening, scratching his wrists, his tongue unconsciously poking out of his mouth.

"But this is even better, Adam. This realization -- this knowledge that you're," and I still have a hard time saying it, even now, "that you're not perfect -- it hasn't hurt me. Not that I haven't been hurt these past few weeks; they've been torturous, honestly. But now…now I know that it's okay that you're not…because the imperfect person you _are_ loves me. And I love you, anyway. Just because you wear those polo shirts…and just because I hate those polo shirts -- " And Adam laughs here, loudly, like he used to months ago, before drama had a permanent fixture in our lives, "-- doesn't mean that I don't love you or even that I love you any less. You know, after I realized that you're not this blindly, blandly perfect person, I was worried that I didn't know the real you. But I _do_ -- I know you, down to your favourite candy and your slob tendencies, your nervous habits and your strange food preferences. And I love every imperfect part of you." I want to punctuate my words with a kiss, but some part of me is still holding back.

"I…"

"Adam," I interrupt him, only because if I don't keep talking, I'll never get out everything I really _need_ to say. "I love the way you can solve a math problem that takes a page and a half and that you think it's nothing special or extraordinary. I love the way you scrunch your nose and squint your eyes when you're trying to remember something in the far reaches of your brain. I love the way you smooth imaginary wrinkles out of your pants and fix the part in your hair for minutes upon minutes until it's just right. I love the way you check all the locks on the door and windows before we go to bed at night and the way you'll turn on the heater because you know I like to sleep in a warm room. I love the way you stop everything to explain something to me…even when I'm reluctant to ask."

"Dwayne…"

"I love how you tell completely stupid jokes and then laugh at yourself, even when no one else is. I love how you eat TicTacs in threes and how you only eat sandwiches cut diagonally. I love the way you move on the ice, how you glide so…so beautifully, so effortlessly, like the ability to skate is just naturally ingrained within you. I love the six pillows on your bed, I love your strange fascination with math and history and your even stranger love of football. I love the way you always answer the phone after two rings, the way you laugh, the look on your face when you step into the rink. I love the way your tongue pokes out of your mouth when you're concentrating or listening really hard." He's still doing that. "And, Adam, I really _do_ love how you scratch your wrists -- I do, because it _is_ a part of you…I love your stupid old-lady candy and your Arctic temperature and your toothpaste drooling and bunless hamburgers."

"Just like I love your sports section stealing and your identical pairs of boots," Adam says.

We're finally on the same page; we're finally at the same place in our lives, in this roller coaster of a relationship.

I step close again, resting my forehead against his, and when I speak, I am so soft I don't know he can hear me, but his eyes are closed and he's _listening_.

"I love the way you sigh in your sleep and murmur sometimes -- "

His eyes fly open. "I do no--"

"-- and the way you deny it if someone ever points it out."

He smiles and closes his eyes again, tilting his chin up until our noses bump.

"I love the way you say my name," my voice is softer still, and the corners of my mouth turn up slightly and I think I _feel_ rather than hear him say it, "and the way you used to look at me all the time and the way you would pretend you weren't looking at me."

He laughs. "I did do that. How did you not know…?"

"I've been thinking about that. I didn't know what I was looking at. I saw it, but only in a fantasy could I ever think it meant anything. As I was firmly situated in the real world, I thought…oh, how much I've missed. Remember the hours you spent teaching me algebra and the vigil by my bedside after you nearly broke my nose and the fact that you trust me about your wrist? So much. Adam, I thought I was being realistic, but I was blind."

"You had to know somehow. I mean…you did eventually kiss me."

"Mmhmm…" I'm kind of distracted by the word "kiss." I think it would be hard to _not_ be distracted with Adam Banks this close to me.

He looks mildly amused and very pleased with himself. "Dwayne, you did…"

"I know I did. But that was only because I was finally getting everything out there. I was finally relieving myself of the burden of a secret I'd carried for so long. I had no idea the reaction I would get, and if you remember correctly, I bolted. I assumed the backlash would be instant and negative, so I left." I smile wryly. "It was the moment that changed everything, and it was an impulse."

"Best impulse you've ever had then."

"I think so." I tilt my head thoughtfully. "I think that as horrible as this experience has been between that kiss and this conversation, it was all worth it."

"I'm not surprised. I agree. It took us a long, tough time to get here, but we _are_ here now, and that's what really matters."

"You're still my opposite, Adam," I tell him. "But we _are_ actually very similar. And you're still my match."

"You know what we have in common that I like the most?" He asks cheekily, and I know the answer is probably going to make me blush. "We both love each other." I was right; I'm blushing, but I'm also happy beyond belief. This is it; this is the conversation, this is the moment. This is the _real_ moment where everything changes.

Adam pulls away suddenly, and about seven thousand things fly through my mind at a million miles an hour.

He holds up his finger, and I remain silent and still. He walks over to the door and waits a few moments before shaking his head knowingly. "You'd better not have heard what we said, Connie; that was private stuff." He's speaking loudly through the door, and I hear Connie's giggle on the other side.

"I didn't," she calls back. "But Orion might have heard everything."

Adam opens the door a crack. Connie's alone, and she barges her way into the locker room.

"I couldn't hear a _thing_," she announces. "What did I miss?"

"Connie?" Adam stares at her. "Perhaps we were in the middle of something."

"You opened the door; you would have ignored me completely if you were in the middle of a deep conversation or an important sentence or, you know, a make-out session."

I roll my eyes but am finding it quite difficult to suppress the laughter.

"So what happened?" she asked.

"We're happy," I answer briefly. Adam looks over at me in surprise, but nods. Connie squeals. "I'm happy, he's happy, _we're_ happy. So Connie?" She raises her eyebrows expectantly. "Get out." She huffs, but it's totally in jest. "Now."

She does so, flipping her hair over her shoulder exaggeratedly.

"Adam," I say as soon as the door closes; he reaches out and turns the lock. "I'm sorry I told Connie about…well, everything."

"Don't worry about it."

"You're not mad? I mean, I had to tell her about you…I mean, there was no other way; nothing would have really made sense." I do feel really bad.

"I'm not mad," he assures me. "If Connie was there for you when you needed her…well, I'm glad you had someone to talk to. Besides, it won't be long now before everyone knows anyway. The Christmas party is only five days away."

That's when Adam was planning on coming out to the team; I had almost forgotten. It _was_ only five days away; Christmas vacation started in just a week. Mama and Luke would be pleased to see me home in a dramatically, amazingly better mood than over the last break. I smile and nod.

"Won't be long now," I agree.

"And it will just be the next step. It's the logical next step. And everything will work out."

"I hope," I can't help but add nervously.

"Our friends will be fine with it." Adam sounds totally confident about this, and I think carefully for a few long moments before deciding I do agree with him. I don't know if it's wishful thinking, but I can't think of one Duck who would have an issue with our homosexuality. Adam continues, "They know us, they love us; that's not going to change. We'll be out in the open, and everything will get even _better_."

"If that's possible," I grin before hurriedly changing the subject. I come off as such an awkward flirt, and I'm so lucky Adam doesn't seem to mind. "I'm so glad you're not mad about Connie," I say. "I was worried you would be, but I had to tell her…I needed someone to confide in, and Connie's always been th -- "

"Dwayne?" Adam closes the distance between us in two long steps. "I'm not mad. And I don't want to talk about Connie right now." He leans forward, and we bump noses again.

"Oh," I mumble.

And finally, _finally_, Adam kisses me.

And, yeah, it's pretty perfect.

* * *

07-29-05  
11:46pm


End file.
